He stood very quiet in the dark hall; only a little light from above the door--shining on the stair rail and on a lamp that hung above it.... She was playing with the lightest touch--a few notes, as if feeling her way, and then the little singing voice answering it.... So she was like this--very still and happy--and he was shut out. His hand groped behind him for the latch and found it and opened the door, and he stepped outside and closed the door softly. He stood a moment in the wind. Behind his door he heard the music playing to itself.... He walked for a long time that afternoon--along the dull streets, staring at brick houses and at children running past him on brick walks.... It was all brick walks and long rows of houses--and dulness; he could not reach Rosalind. He could buy clothes for her--more bricks... and there was the music--his mind halted--and went on. Music made her happy--like that! He bought an evening paper and studied it awhile, standing by the newsstand, with the cars and taxis shooting past. Presently he folded the paper and took a car that was going toward town. There was something he could do for Rosalind--something that no one had thought of--something that she would like! He was as eager and as ignorant as a boy, standing in front of the barred ticket window and looking in. “Tickets for the Symphony?” The man glanced out at him. “House sold out.” Eldridge stared back. “You mean--I cannot--get them!” “Something may come in. You can leave your name.” The man pushed paper and pencil toward him. Eldridge wrote his name slowly. “I want--good ones.” “Can’t say--” said the man. “There are six ahead of you--” He took up the paper and made a note. Eldridge stepped outside. A man looked at him and moved up, falling into step beside him. “I have a couple of tickets--” he said softly. He did not know that he was speaking to a man on a quest, a man who would have paid whatever he might ask for the slips of paper in his hand--They were not mere symphony tickets he sold. They were tickets to the fields of the sun. He asked five dollars for them; he might have got fifty. Eldridge slipped them into his pocket. He stepped back into the hall. “I shall not need those tickets,” he said. The man in the window glanced at him, indifferent, and crossed out a name. All the way home Eldridge’s heart laughed. Would she like it?... She had played so softly... she would listen like that--and he would be with her.... He could not keep the tickets in his pocket. He took them out and looked at them--two plain blue slips with a few black marks on them.... And he had thought of it himself!--It was not Mr. El-dridge Walcott’s money that bought them for her.... Would she understand it was not money--? She took them from him with half-pleased face--“For the Symphony?” she said. “I thought you might--we--. might like it--” She looked at them a minute. “I never went to a symphony--”