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!"