at the fountain of exquisite melody, we saw sparkling within
the waters the lights of Paradise. New York never has heard his equal.
He stands alone, pre-eminent, an artistic giant."

"Now, that's what I call great," said the impresario, dramatically;
"when you hit Totenkellar that way you are good for all kinds of money."

Perkins took his hat and cane and moved toward the door. The violinist
arose and extended his hand wearily. "Good-day" came simultaneously;
then "I'm off. We'll turn 'em away to-morrow; see if we don't!"
Whereupon Perkins left Diotti alone in his misery.

IV

It was the evening of the fourteenth, In front of the Academy a
strong-lunged and insistent tribe of gentry, known as ticket
speculators, were reaping a rich harvest. They represented a beacon
light of hope to many tardy patrons of the evening's entertainment,
especially to the man who had forgotten his wife's injunction "to be
sure to buy the tickets on the way down town, dear, and get them in the
family circle, not too far back." This man's intentions were sincere,
but his newspaper was unusually interesting that morning. He was
deeply engrossed in an article on the causes leading to matrimonial
infelicities when his 'bus passed the Academy box-office.

He was six blocks farther down town when he finished the article, only
to find that it was a carefully worded advertisement for a new patent
medicine, and of course he had not time to return. "Oh, well," said he,
"I'll get them when I go up town to-night."

But he did not. So with fear in his heart and a red-faced woman on his
arm he approached the box-office. "Not a seat left," sounded to his
hen-pecked ears like the concluding words of the black-robed judge:
"and may the Lord have mercy upon your soul." But a reprieve came, for
one of the aforesaid beacon lights of hope rushed forward, saying: "I
have two good seats, not far back, and only ten apiece." And the
gentleman with fear in his heart and the red-faced woman on his arm
passed in.

They saw the largest crowd in the history of the Academy. Every seat
was occupied, every foot of standing room taken. Chairs were placed in
the side aisles. The programs announced that it was the second
appearance in America of Angelo Diotti, the renowned Tuscan violinist.

The orchestra had perfunctorily ground out the overture to "Der
Freischuetz," the baritone had stentorianly emitted "Dio Possente," the
soprano was working her way through