"Nonsense!" said Eugene. "You're talking in an exaggerated way. You will sing, and sing admirably. The audience will rise to you as one man, and next morning the newspapers won't know where to get words of praise for your performance." Again a queer look came into Lavirotte's eye. "I think, Eugene, you are a very simple man." "I see no need for anything but simplicity in this matter. You know, Dominique, I shall be greatly delighted to be understudy when the opera is started. Of course, I'd rather have anything to do than look on, but there's no help for that." "No," said Lavirotte, with an uncomfortable laugh, "there's no help for it unless fate steps in." "Oh, confound it, Dominique! Give up your 'ifs.' I'm tired of them. Here are Nellie and the boy. Let us drop shop." Lavirotte rose quickly, went to Mrs. O'Donnell, took her hand and shook it tenderly. Then, having lifted the boy in his arms, he kissed him and pressed him to his breast, and carried him about the room' saying: "You will grow to be a fine generous fellow, Mark, like your father; and you will always be as good and gentle as your mother, although you never can be as beautiful. Mark, dear, kiss your godfather, who has no wife, no son of his own. You'll always be fond of Dominique, won't you, boy?" "Of course he will," said Eugene, taking the boy out of Lavirotte's arms and fondling him tenderly. Ever since the boy had come to Eugene until now, there had always hung over the father's mind a certain cloud of gloom. For while he said to himself that Nellie had come to him in the full light of her reason, and with the knowledge that his house had suffered great commercial disaster, between her coming and the birth of the boy greater disaster still had fallen upon them--ruin in fact--and when the boy was born he seemed to be the despairing leader of a forlorn hope. He had often looked at that boy, and wondered whether or not he should be able to find bread for him. The love he had for Nellie was of a different character. It was more robust and less intimate. Supposing his supplies failed absolutely, he could tell her there was no bread, and she would understand. But the little fellow could not understand. He would think that bread came, like the daylight, to all living things alike. He would simply know that he was hungry, and that heretofore when he was hungry he got food. And being hungry again, he would ask for food, and expect it. And if he (the father) had to tell him there was no food, had to try to quiet him with mere words and caresses, how should he, Eugene, feel? And then, although the little fellow might be quieted for a while, he could not be for long, and he would cry piteously for food. And there would be none to give him.