Just then the music ceased suddenly.  The flap of the tent lifted towards the roadway, and Mr. Ormond sent a hail across the twilight gloom.

“Is that you, Shad?”

“No, sir, it’s just us girls,” answered Kit.  “We’re going down to the mill.”

“Would you mind so very much, Miss Kit, asking if any one has telephoned a telegram up for me from the station?  I am expecting one.”

“There, you see,” Helen said, dubiously, as they went on down the road.  “We just get rid of one mystery, and he hands us another one to solve.  Who on earth would he be getting a telegram from?”

Kit laughed and slipped her arm around the slender shoulders that were growing so quickly up to her own.

“You’re getting just as bad as every one else here in Gilead, Helenita.  I thought only Mr. Ricketts took an interest in telegrams and post-cards.”

Nevertheless, when Sally told them that there had been a message ’phoned up from Nantic, even Kit showed quick interest.

It was signed “Concetta,” and the message read: 

“Arrive Nantic, ten-two.  All love and tenderness.  Contract signed.”

The girls returned after delivering the message, brimful of the news, but Mr. Robbins laughed at them.

“Why, bless your hearts,” he said, “I could have told you long ago all about Bryan Ormond.  He is one of the greatest ’cellists we have, and is married to Madame Concetta Doria, the grand-opera singer.  He told me when he first took the tent for the summer, but as he was composing a new opera, he wanted absolute solitude up here, and asked me not to let any one know who they were.”

“Talk about entertaining an angel unawares,” Jean exclaimed.  “Now, Helen, you’ll have your chance, if you can only get acquainted with her.  I can see you perched on their threshold drinking in trills and quavers the rest of the summer.”

Helen only smiled happily.  It was she who had pleaded most for the preservation of the empire grand piano.  The one in the gold case with all the Watteau figures and garlands painted on it, that had been saved as one of the “white hyacinths” from the old home.  After the day’s work was over, it was always Helen who stole into the dim front room to listen while her mother played over favorite airs from the old grand-operas.  Perhaps only Helen really understood how at this time Gilead and all its rural delights vanished, and in their place came memories of the days back at the Cove, when the season tickets at the opera had been as natural a part of the year’s pleasures as setting hens were here.

“Have you ever heard her sing, mother?” she asked, that first evening, after Mrs. Robbins had played the “Shadow Dance” from “Dinorah” and the trio from “Traviata.”

“I heard her in both of these, dear, and ever so many more.  I think my favorite was Rigoletto.  She was a beautiful, girlish Gilda, but that is years ago.  You girls will love her.”