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!”