When they reached Vertano but three days remained before the departure of Mr. Wallingford and his orchestra for Paris, but during that time there were drives through the beautiful country, boat rides upon the lake, rehearsals by the orchestra and the performance of an operetta written by Mr. Wallingford in which he, his wife, and seven children took part. “Shall we go to Paris?” asked Alice. “Certainly,” said Quincy. “We owe Mr. Wallingford the return courtesy of our attendance at his six concerts.” The trip across the channel did not possess so many terrors for Alice with her husband and son for company, but she was glad when they stepped upon land at Dover. “I shall never love the water,” she said. They reached London in the afternoon too late to take the train for Heathfield in which town Fernborough Hall was situated. A telegram was sent to Aunt Ella informing her of their safe arrival in London, and that they would be with her the next day. “What can I do to amuse you this evening, Alice?” “Sit down and let me look at you, I have so much time to make up.” “They give _Martha_ at the opera to-night--it is my favourite--full of the sweetest melodies in which I substitute Alice for Martha. Quincy and Tom would like to go, and I have another reason which I will tell you after the first act.” Alice's curiosity was aroused and she expressed her desire to go. After the first act, Alice turned an inquisitive face to her husband. “What was your other reason for coming here to-night?” “Don't you think Catessa is a fine tenor?” “He has the most beautiful voice I ever heard,” Alice replied. “I know him. He is an old friend of mine. I'm going behind the scenes to congratulate him personally.” “Did you meet him in Italy?” “No--in Fernborough, Massachusetts.” “Why, Quincy, what _do_ you mean? There were no Italians in Fernborough.” “He is not an Italian. He's a Yankee. Look at his name.” “That's Italian surely.” “It's only his Yankee name transposed. Aren't you good on anagrams?” “Certainly, I'm not. Please tell me.” “Do you remember a young man in Fernborough with consumption whom I sent to a sanatorium in New York?” “Yes, Mr. Scates.” “You've hit it. Mr. Arthur Scates, or A. Scates for short. Now look at that Italian name again.” “I am doing so, and it looks just as foreign as ever.” “Agreed, but Catessa contains just the same letters as A. Scates, only they are arranged differently.” After the second act, Quincy visited Mr. Scates in his dressing room. The tenor insisted on Quincy and his party taking supper with him at his hotel after the opera. He offered to repay the cost of his treatment with interest. “No,” said Quincy, “I do not need it, and will not take it. Use it to help some poor artist.” It was one o'clock when Quincy and his party reached their hotel. “Did you enjoy yourself, Alice?” “I had a delightful evening. But how happy you must feel to know that your money saved such a precious life.”