"Do you mean that I am to go to 98 Lemore street with you?" "Yes, you could stand on the other side of the street." "Your appointment is at eleven o'clock. What are you going to do before that time comes? Will you go to the theater?" "No. I could not enjoy it. May I pass the evening in your room?" "Certainly, if you like." "You know we can speak of her. That will be better than having my thoughts taken up by a variety entertainment. But, oh, how long the evening will be!" "We shall get through it after a while. You might go round and take supper with me. I look upon you as my confidential friend." CHAPTER XII. AN UNLOOKED-FOR SCENE. As the clocks of the city struck eleven Robert and his friend Palmer turned into Lemore street. It was a small, narrow street, lined with brick houses, and evidently far from fashionable. The house indicated by the singer was no better than its neighbors. "I wonder which is her room?" murmured Palmer. "There seems to be no light in any of the windows." But as he spoke, one of the windows was lighted up by a lamp, which was lighted from within. "That's her room," said Palmer joyfully. "She is expecting me." The curtain was lifted, and the fair face of Alameda peered out. She looked across the street and smiled, as she caught sight of Palmer and his young companion. "You see?" "Yes. Perhaps I had better go now." "No; stay till she opens the window and speaks to me." "Very well, if you wish it." Livingston Palmer walked across the street, and taking a harmonica from his pocket, started on a tune. It was the only instrument on which he knew how to play, and that is why he selected it. It might have been hard to distinguish the tune, but that was not of so much importance. He felt that it was the proper thing to do, to serenade his charmer. Robert maintained his position, and wondered what would come next. He had not long to wait. The window opened, and Alameda leaned out with something in her hand. The next moment Palmer was drenched by the contents of a pitcher, which Alameda poured out, locating him with careful precision, so that he should receive the full benefit of it. Palmer started with a cry of dismay, and turned quickly. But too late. His collar, his hat, and coat were thoroughly wet. It was certainly very aggravating, and his mortification was increased by a hard, cold laugh, evidently proceeding from his charmer. "Good-night," she said, and then shut the window. Robert hurried across the street to where Palmer was standing motionless, as if dazed. He did not laugh, as most boys would have done, for he felt indignant at the treatment his unlucky companion had received. "Are you much wet?" he asked in a tone of sympathy. "Yes," answered Livingston Palmer in a hollow voice. "But it is not that that troubles me. She is false, heartless. Oh, Robert, my heart is broken!" And the poor fellow actually shed tears.