I was again to sing under Mapleson's management. The new opera house, built on the site of Her Majesty's that had burned, was highly satisfactory; and he had nearly all of his old singers again--Titjiens, Nilsson, and myself among others. Patti and Lucca were still our rivals at Covent Garden; also Faure and Cotogni; and there was a pretty, young, new singer from Canada with them, Mme. Albani, who had a light, sweet voice and was attractive in appearance. Our two innovations at Her Majesty's were Marie Roze from the Paris Opera Comique--later destined to be associated with me professionally and with Mapleson personally--and Italo Campanini. Campanini was the son of a blacksmith in Italy and had worked at the forge himself for many years before going on the stage, and was the hero of the hour, for not only was his voice a very lovely one, but he was also a fine actor. It was worth while to see his Don José. People forgot that Carmen herself was in the opera. Our other tenor was Capoul, the Frenchman, Trebelli-Bettini was our leading contralto and my friend Foli--"the Irish Italian from Connecticut"--was still with us. Campanini, the idol of the town, was, like most tenors, enormously pleased with himself. To be sure, he had some reason, with his heavenly voice, his dramatic gift, and his artistic instinct; but one would like some day to meet a man gifted with a divine vocal organ and a simple spirit both, at the same time. It appears to be an impossible combination. When Mapleson told Campanini that he was to sing with me in _Lucia_ he frowned and considered the point. "An American," he muttered doubtfully. "I have never heard her--do I know that she can sing? I--Campanini--cannot sing with a _prima donna_ of whom I know nothing! Who is this Miss Kellogg anyway?" "You're quite right," said the Colonel with the most cordial air of assent. "You'd better hear her before you decide. She's singing Linda to-night. Go into the stalls and listen to her for a few moments. If you don't want to sing with her, you don't have to." That evening Campanini was on hand, ready to controvert the very idea of an American _prima donna_ daring to sing with him. After the first act he came out into the foyer and ran into the Colonel. "Well," remarked that gentleman casually, winking at Jarrett, "can she sing?" "Sing?" said Campanini solemnly, "she has the voice of a flute. It is the absolutely perfect tone. It is a--miracle!"