ss. I was not well, you see. It has been
of great benefit to me."

"I kept my promise," she said in a lower tone.

"Thank you; that also has helped me."

Annette's teacher began to note a wonderful improvement in his pupil's
voice. Never did a girl study so hard or practise so faithfully. It
was truly wonderful. Now and then Annette would say to papa as if to
reassure herself,--

"And when Monsieur Cherbart says I am ready to go to Paris, I may go,
papa?"

And papa would say a "Certainly" that would send her back to the piano
with renewed ardour.

As for Monsieur LeConte, he was the idol of New Orleans. Seldom had
there been a tenor who had sung himself so completely into the very
hearts of a populace. When he was billed, the opera displayed
"Standing Room" signs, no matter what the other attractions in the city
might be. Sometimes Monsieur LeConte delighted small audiences in
Annette's parlour, when the hostess was in a perfect flutter of
happiness. Not often, you know, for the leading tenor was in great
demand at the homes of society queens.

"Do you know," said Annette, petulantly, one evening, "I wish for the
old days at Pass Christian."

"So do I," he answered tenderly; "will you repeat them with me next
summer?"

"If I only could!" she gasped.

Still she might have been happy, had it not been for Madame
Dubeau,--Madame Dubeau, the flute-voiced leading soprano, who wore the
single dainty curl on her forehead, and thrilled her audiences
oftentimes more completely than the fisherman. Madame Dubeau was La
Juive to his Eleazar, Leonore to his Manfred, Elsa to his Lohengrin,
Aida to his Rhadames, Marguerite to his Faust; in brief, Madame Dubeau
was his opposite. She caressed him as Mignon, pleaded with him as
Michaela, died for him in "Les Huguenots," broke her heart for love of
him in "La Favorite." How could he help but love her, Annette asked
herself, how could he? Madame Dubeau was beautiful and gifted and
charming.

Once she whispered her fears to him when there was the meagrest bit of
an opportunity. He laughed. "You don't understand, little one," he
said tenderly; "the relations of professional people to each other are
peculiar. After you go to Paris, you will know."

Still, New Orleans had built up its romance, and gossiped accordingly.

"Have you heard the news?" whispered Lola to Annette, leaning from her
box at the opera one night. The curtain had just gone up on
"Herodias,"