ne, it is a feverish dream," he would say with a somewhat
theatrical wave of the hand. It was evidently a weakness of his to
enshroud himself in an air of romance and mystery. "What does it
matter who and what I was? To-day I am Papa Peron, music publisher's
hack, earning a few shillings a week at a most uncongenial occupation.
But, at my age, I want little."

Nello and his sister were happy too. The salary at the Parthenon was
not magnificent, but it was a certainty, and they were frugal young
people. No more playing in the sleet-driven streets, no more terrible
uncertainty as to the night's lodging and the next day's meal.

For a month they pursued this humble, but not uncomfortable life. And
Nello, who had no opportunity of displaying his talent in this big
orchestra, where he was one of many, played two or three hours a day
to the brilliant accompaniment of the old Frenchman.

And then the clouds began to gather. Papa Peron was taken with a
severe attack of bronchitis. Racked in spasms of severe coughing, he
was unable to pursue his humble and not too remunerative occupation.
He could no longer correct the proof sheets. The doctor's visits, the
necessity of extra and expensive nourishment, began to eat up his
slender store. The few sovereigns he had hoarded for a rainy day began
to melt rapidly.

This did not matter much for a while. The regular salary at the
Parthenon sufficed, with Anita's skilful management, for the three;
but there was no longer any question of putting by. Anita knew now
that she had been very mistaken in thinking the poor old Papa was a
miser. With tears in his poor old eyes, he had been forced to confess
that he had come to his last sovereign.

And Anita had cried too. "What does it matter, dear Papa?" she said.
She had grown very fond of the kind old man. "You took us in when we
were poor and friendless. Nello will work for you now, and I shall be
very careful. You will see how well I can manage on a little."

And so good old Papa Peron had his beef-tea, his little drops of
brandy, his expensive chicken. Whoever went without, he must not
experience want. And the doctor was paid punctually.

But misfortunes never come single. One very frosty night, on coming
out of the Parthenon, Nello fell on the slippery pavement and
seriously hurt his left hand. He went to the doctor on his way home,
and his worst fears were confirmed.

"A longish job, I fear, Signor Corsini. The fingers are very m