drink to hearten me. Before making my appearance on the platform I had an attack of stage-fright, but I soon recovered my self-possession, and after the first note I lost my fear entirely. Taking care not to look at the audience I directed my glances above their heads, trying to persuade myself that all the audience was merely furniture. My first aria was Gounod’s “Ave Maria,” to the accompaniment of Professor Albrecht on the cello. A storm of applause arose, and I was recalled several times. “Bis, bis,” ran round the room and I had to sing again and again. I don’t wish to boast, but my triumph was complete. Mr. Schostakowsky, the director of the Philharmonic Society, who was critical to the extreme, approved, nodding his head, and when the first part of the concert was over, he came up to me and complimented me upon my singing. There was a quarter-of-an-hour interval for gossip and refreshment, during which Count Kergaradec, the French Consul, thanked me for the pleasure my singing had given him, telling me that I was equally pleasing to the ear and to the eye. I was very flattered, very excited, very happy, and realised that the stage was my proper sphere. There! I am on the point of failing in modesty, and stop! When the performance was at an end, and the audience filed out, we invited some friends to supper. I was too excited to go to bed until dawn. Every one agreed that our concert was a wonderful success. Our desire to raise as much money as we could was fulfilled, the collection mounted to over eighty pounds, which we handed over triumphantly to Professor Albrecht. We did not expect so large a profit.