rescue, and promised to obtain for her an excellent substitute, a man who sang Greek songs.

When Margaritis received the telegram from Arkwright's Agency that he was to sing that night at A—— House, he was overjoyed, and could scarcely believe his eyes. He at once communicated the news to Tina, and they spent hours in discussing what songs he should sing, who the good fairy could have been who recommended him, and in building castles in the air with regard to the result of this engagement. He would become famous; they would have enough money to go to Italy for a holiday; he would give concerts; he would reveal to the modern world the music of Hellas.

About half-past four in the afternoon Margaritis went out to buy himself some respectable evening studs from a large emporium in the neighbourhood. When he returned, singing and whistling on the stairs for joy, he was met by Tina, who to his astonishment was quite pale, and he saw at a glance that something had happened.

"They've put me off!" he said. "Or it was a mistake. I knew it was too good to be true."

"It's not that," said Tina, "it's Carlo!" Carlo was their little boy, who was nearly four years old.

"What?" said Margaritis.

Tina dragged him into their little sitting-room. "He is ill," she said, "very ill, and I don't know what's the matter with him."

Margaritis turned pale. "Let me see him," he said. "We must get a doctor."

"The doctor is coming: I went for him at once," she said. And then they walked on tiptoe into the bedroom where Carlo was lying in his cot, tossing about, and evidently in a raging fever. Half an hour later the doctor came. Margaritis and Tina waited, silent and trembling with anxiety, while he examined the child. At last he came from the bedroom with a grave face. He said that the child was very seriously ill, but that if he got through the night he would very probably recover.

"I must send a telegram," said Margaritis to Tina. "I cannot possibly go." Tina squeezed his hand, and then with a brave smile she went back to the sick-room.

Margaritis took a telegraph form out of a shabby leather portfolio, sat down before the dining-table on which the cloth had been laid for tea (for the sitting-room was the dining-room also), and wrote out the telegram. And as he wrote his tears fell on the writing and smudged it. His grief overcame him, and he buried his face in his hands and sobbed. "What the Fates give with one hand," he thought to himself, "they take away with another!" Then he heard himself, he knew not why, invoking the gods of Greece, the ancient gods of Olympus, to help him. And at that moment the whole room seemed to be filled with a strange light, and he saw the wonderful figure of a man with a shining face and eyes that seemed infinitely sad and at the same time infinitely luminous. The figure held a lyre, and said to him in Greek:—

"It is well. All will be well. I will take your place at the concert!"

When the vision had vanished, the half written telegram on his table had disappeared also.

The party at A—— House that night was brilliant rather than large. In one of the drawing-rooms there was a piano, in front of which were six or seven rows of gilt chairs. The other rooms were filled with shifting groups of beautiful women, and men wearing orders and medals. There was a continuous buzz of conversation, except in the room where the music was going on; and even there in the background there was a subdued whispering. The violinist was playing some elaborate nothings, and displaying astounding facility, but the audience did not seem to be much interested, for when he stopped, after some faint applause, conversation broke loose like a torrent.

"I do hope," said some one to the lady next him, "that the music will be over soon. One gets wedged in here, one doesn't dare move, and one had to put up with having one's conversation spoilt and interrupted."

"It's an extraordinary thing," answered the lady, "that nobody dares give a party in London without some kind of entertainment. It is such a mistake!"

At that moment the fourth and last item on the programme began, which was called "Greek Songs by Heraclius Themistocles Margaritis."

"He certainly looks like a Greek," said the lady who had been talking; "in fact if his hair was cut he would be quite good-looking."

"It's not my idea of a Greek," whispered her neighbour. "He is too fair. I thought Greeks were dark."

"Hush!" said the lady, and the first song began. It was a strange thread of sound that came upon the ears of the listeners, rather high and piercing, and the accompaniment (Margaritis accompanied himself) was twanging and monotonous like the sound of an Indian tom-tom. The same phrase was repeated two or three times over, the melody seemed to consist of only a very few notes, and to come over and over again with extraordinary persistence. Then the music rose into a high shrill call and ended abruptly.

"What has happened?" asked the lady. "Has he forgotten the words?"

"I think the song is over," said the man. "That's one comfort at any rate. I hate songs which I can't understand."

But their comments were stopped by the beginning of another song. The second song was soft and very low, and seemed to be almost entirely on one note. It was still shorter than the first one, and ended still more abruptly.

"I don't believe he's a Greek at all," said the man. "His songs are just like the noise of bagpipes."

"I daresay he's a Scotch," said the lady. "Scotchmen are very clever. But I must say his songs are short."

An indignant "Hush!" from a musician with long hair who was sitting not far off heralded the beginning of the third song. It began on a high note, clear and loud, so that the audience was startled, and for a moment or two there was not a whisper to be heard in the drawing-room. Then it died away in a piteous wail like the scream of a sea-bird, and the high insistent note came back once more, and this process seemed to be repeated several times till the sad scream prevailed, and stopped suddenly. A little desultory clapping was heard, but it was instantly suppressed when the audience became aware that the song was not over.

"He's going on again," whispered the man. A low, long note was heard like the drone of a bee, which went on, sometimes rising and sometimes getting lower, like a strange throbbing sob; and then once more it ceased. The audience hesitated a moment, being not quite certain whether the music was really finished or not. Then when they saw Margaritis rise from the piano, some meagre well-bred applause was heard, and an immense sigh of relief. The people streamed into the other rooms, and the conversation became loud and general.

The lady who had talked went quickly into the next room to find out what was the right thing to say about the music, and if possible to get the opinion of a musician.

Sir Anthony Holdsworth, who had translated Pindar, was talking to Ralph Enderby, who had written a book on "Modern Greek Folk Lore."

"It hurts me," said Sir Anthony, "to hear ancient Greek pronounced like that. It is impossible to distinguish the words; besides which its wrong to pronounce ancient Greek like modern Greek. Did you understand it?"

"No," said Ralph Enderby, "I did not. If it is modern Greek it was certainly wrongly pronounced. I think the man must be singing some kind of Asiatic dialect—unless he's a fraud."

Hard by there was another group discussing the music: Blythe, the musical critic, and Lawson, who had the reputation of being a great connoisseur.

"He's distinctly clever," Blythe was saying; "the songs are amusing 'pastiches' of Eastern folk song."

"Yes, I think he's clever," said Lawson, "but there's nothing original in it, and besides, as I expect you noticed, two of the songs were gross plagiarisms of De Bussy."

"Clever, but not original," said the lady to herself. "That's it." And two hostesses who had overheard this