and it seemed
hard to go immediately to work. But if one is going to be an
opera-singer some day and capture the world with one's voice, there is
nothing to do but to study, study, sing, practise, even though one's
throat be parched, one's head a great ache, and one's heart a nest of
discouragement and sadness at what seems the uselessness of it all.
Annette had now a new incentive to work; the fisherman had once praised
her voice when she hummed a barcarole on the sands, and he had insisted
that there was power in its rich notes. Though the fisherman had
showed no cause why he should be accepted as a musical critic, Annette
had somehow respected his judgment and been accordingly elated.

It was the night of the opening of the opera. There was the usual
crush, the glitter and confusing radiance of the brilliant audience.
Annette, with papa, Aunt Nina, and Philip, was late reaching her box.
The curtain was up, and "La Juive" was pouring forth defiance at her
angry persecutors. Annette listened breathlessly. In fancy, she too
was ringing her voice out to an applauding house. Her head
unconsciously beat time to the music, and one hand half held her cloak
from her bare shoulders.

Then Eleazar appeared, and the house rose at the end of his song.
Encores it gave, and bravos and cheers. He bowed calmly, swept his
eyes over the tiers until they found Annette, where they rested in a
half-smile of recognition.

"Philip," gasped Annette, nervously raising her glasses, "my fisherman!"

"Yes, an opera-singer is better than a marchand," drawled Philip.

The curtain fell on the first act. The house was won by the new tenor;
it called and recalled him before the curtain. Clearly he had sung his
way into the hearts of his audience at once.

"Papa, Aunt Nina," said Annette, "you must come behind the scenes with
me. I want you to meet him. He is delightful. You must come."

Philip was bending ostentatiously over the girl in the next box. Papa
and Aunt Nina consented to be dragged behind the scenes. Annette was
well known, for, in hopes of some day being an occupant of one of the
dressing-rooms, she had made friends with everyone connected with the
opera.

Eleazar received them, still wearing his brown garb and patriarchal
beard.

"How you deceived me!" she laughed, when the greetings and
introductions were over.

"I came to America early," he smiled back at her, "and thought I'd try
a little incognito at the Pa