ion it was hard to tell.
Nevertheless, there was just about half as much money coming in as
formerly, and the quaint little pucker between M'sieu's eyebrows which
served for a frown came oftener and stayed longer than ever before.

"Minesse," he said one day to the white cat,--he told all his troubles
to her; it was of no use to talk to Ma'am Jeanne, she was too deaf to
understand,--"Minesse, we are gettin' po'. You' pere git h'old, an'
hees han's dey go no mo' rapidement, an' dere be no mo' soirees dese
day. Minesse, eef la saison don' hurry up, we shall eat ver' lil'
meat."

And Minesse curled her tail and purred.

Before the summer had fairly begun, strange rumours began to float
about in musical circles. M. Mauge would no longer manage the opera,
but it would be turned into the hands of Americans, a syndicate. Bah!
These English-speaking people could do nothing unless there was a
trust, a syndicate, a company immense and dishonest. It was going to
be a guarantee business, with a strictly financial basis. But worse
than all this, the new manager, who was now in France, would not only
procure the artists, but a new orchestra, a new leader. M'sieu Fortier
grew apprehensive at this, for he knew what the loss of his place would
mean to him.

September and October came, and the papers were filled with accounts of
the new artists from France and of the new orchestra leader too. He
was described as a most talented, progressive, energetic young man.
M'sieu Fortier's heart sank at the word "progressive." He was anything
but that. The New Orleans Creole blood flowed too sluggishly in his
old veins.

November came; the opera reopened. M'sieu Fortier was not re-engaged.

"Minesse," he said with a catch in his voice that strongly resembled a
sob, "Minesse, we mus' go hongry sometime. Ah, mon pauvre violon! Ah,
mon Dieu, dey put us h'out, an' dey will not have us. Nev' min', we
will sing anyhow." And drawing his bow across the strings, he sang in
his thin, quavering voice, "Salut demeure, chaste et pure."

It is strange what a peculiar power of fascination former haunts have
for the human mind. The criminal, after he has fled from justice,
steals back and skulks about the scene of his crime; the employee
thrown from work hangs about the place of his former industry; the
schoolboy, truant or expelled, peeps in at the school-gate and taunts
the good boys within. M'sieu Fortier was no exception. Night after