It was a simple burial. Edward sent a carriage for Cambia, one for the concierge and his wife, and in the other he brought Mrs. Montjoy and Mary, to whom he had related a part of the history of Benoni, as he still called him. Out in Pere la Chaise they laid away the body of the old master, placed on it their flowers and the beautiful wreath that Cambia brought, and were ready to return. As they approached their carriage, Edward introduced the ladies, to whom he had already told of Cambia's career. They looked with sympathetic pleasure upon the great singer and were touched by her interest in and devotion to the old musician, "whom she had known in happier days." Cambia studied their faces long and thoughtfully and promised to call upon them. They parted to meet again. When Edward went to make an engagement for Mrs. Montjoy with Moreau, the great authority on the eye, he was informed that the specialist had been called to Russia for professional services in the family of the Czar, and would not return before a date then a week off. The ladies accepted the delay philosophically. It would give them time to see something of Paris. And see it they did. To Edward it was familiar in every feature. He took them to all the art centers, the historical points, the great cathedral, the environments of Malmaison and Versailles, to the promenades, the palaces and the theaters. This last feature was the delight of both. For the dramatic art in all its perfection both betrayed a keen relish, and just then Paris was at its gayest. They were never jostled, harassed, nor disappointed. They were in the hands of an accomplished cosmopolitan. To Mary the scenes were full of never-ending delight. The mother had breathed the same atmosphere before, but to Mary all was novel and beautiful. Throughout all Edward maintained the sad, quiet dignity peculiar to him, illumined at times by flashes of life, as he saw and gloried in the happiness of the girl at his side. Then came Cambia! Mary had gone out with Edward, for a walk, and Mrs. Montjoy was knitting in the parlor in silent reverie when a card was brought in, and almost immediately the sad, beautiful face of the singer appeared in the door. "Do not arise, madame," she said, quickly, coming forward upon seeing the elderly lady beginning to put aside her knitting, "nor cease your work. I ask that you let me forget we are almost strangers and will sit here by your side. You have not seen Moreau yet?" "No," said Mrs. Montjoy, releasing the white hand that had clasped hers; "he is to return to-day." "Then he will soon relieve your anxiety. With Moreau everything is possible." "I am sure I hope your trust is not misplaced; success will lift a great weight from my family." Cambia was silent, thinking; then she arose and, sinking upon the little footstool, laid her arms upon the knees of her hostess, and with tearful eyes raised to her face she said: