opera house.

And if Polly Pepper sat entranced through the rest of the matchless
performance, Tom Selwyn--three seats back and off to the left--was just
as quietly happy. But he wasn't thinking so much of "Parsifal" as might
have been possible. "It's no end fine of the little mother to say
'yes,'" he kept running over and over to himself, with a satisfied
glance at the quiet face under the plain, English bonnet.

"It's funny we don't see Fanny Vanderburgh anywhere," said Polly, as
they went through the corridor and up the hotel stairs that night.

"She and her mother probably came home earlier," said Mrs. Fisher; "you
know we were delayed, waiting for our carriages. You will see her in
the morning, Polly."

But in the morning, it was ten o'clock before Mr. King's party gathered
for breakfast, for Grandpapa always counselled sleeping late when out
the night before. And when Polly did slip into her chair, there was a
little note lying on her plate.

"Fanny Vanderburgh has gone," she said, and turned quite pale.

It was too true. Mrs. Vanderburgh had sold her two tickets to the
"Flying Dutchman," to be presented that evening, and departed from
Bayreuth.

"It's no use, Polly," Fanny's note ran, "trying to make me have a good
time. Mamma says we are to go back to Paris; and go we must. You've
been lovely, and I thank you ever so much, and good-by."