Were the tickets ready? Yes. Her father had them. So they crowded round
her father and bought some ten, some twenty, some fifty, and some a
hundred. So most of the tickets were taken at once and success was
secured in advance.

To American eyes this seems a strange fashion. The idea of playing at a
private house and then selling the tickets strikes us as peculiar and
perhaps unpleasant.

The Ursos did not think so. It was the custom of the country. It is the
custom now. All the great players and singers have taken just such steps
as this and it seems quite proper and so no one thinks ill of them.

Then she took her violin again. Felix Simon knew what he was about in
Nantes. Massart's instructions had not been thrown away. Camilla was an
artist in little. If she had not the expression and feeling that comes
with maturity, her playing was brilliant, strong and powerful. The tones
were pure and steady and technical difficulties seemed to be of no
consequence. She went through it all without effort and as easily and
gracefully as can be imagined.

The audience was charmed with her simple manners and her wonderful
playing. They fairly overwhelmed her with endearments and attentions.
Was there any thing they could do to gratify such a dear little girl?
One offered her one thing, another something else. She had a delightful
lunch with her new friends and at last went home laden with bon bons and
presents.

Then she must give a concert. They would ask all their friends and
really it would be quite a grand affair. Of course all this took time.
There was the permission of the Mayor to be obtained, and the hall to be
engaged, the tickets to be prepared, and posters and advertisements to
be sent out and tickets to be sold among the rich families of the town.

Her father must attend to it all. There was no one to help and he had to
attend to everything.

In a few days the concert came off at one of the small halls in the
town. There was "a good house," as they say. Camilla played the violin
while her father played the accompaniment on the piano. Her mother sang
and the buffo singer gave some of his songs. The great attraction was
the pale little one with the long braids. How she raced through the
rapid passages and drew her wonderful bow with a great sweep that made
the tones roll out full and grand. Then those strange, airy harmonies
made by pressing one finger firmly on a string to give one note and then
lightly touching