The next day Helen resolved to put her plan into execution. As soon as her morning duties were completed, and her father seated at his never-ending task, she dressed herself in the best manner her limited wardrobe would admit. Though inexperienced in the ways of the world, she felt instinctively the importance of making a favorable first impression. When she was quite ready, she left the room softly, and was soon mingling with the busy crowds that thronged Broadway. At first she walked rapidly, but, as she drew nearer her destination, and could see the imposing front of the theatre, her heart beat quick and her step became slower.

When she actually reached the entrance, a feeling of diffidence seized her, which she found it almost impossible to overcome. She felt that she could not enter, at least just then, and walked slowly by. After a while she walked back, but was withheld from entering again by a feeling scarcely less strong. Again she walked past, and again returned. This time she had schooled herself to the effort, and approaching, with hesitation, the office where tickets were sold for the evening’s entertainment, inquired, in a low voice, for the manager.

“Who did you wish to see?” inquired the clerk, with some surprise visible in his manner.

The request was repeated.

“The manager? Can’t say whether he’s in or not. You must go to the back entrance and turn to the left. Then knock at the first door.”

Helen looked bewildered.

“Have you been here before?”

“No, sir.”

“Stop a minute, and I will show you, then. I shall close the office directly.”

Helen was very glad of the delay, as it gave her time to assume an outward semblance of calmness.

Mr. Bowers, the manager, was seated in a small room connecting with the stage. He was a man of comfortable proportions, and bore the appearance of one whom the world had used not unkindly. Though, in general, good-tempered, he was, on this particular morning, “out of sorts.” A new play was to be brought out in the evening. The actors had been allowed very little time to “get up” their parts, and, as a natural consequence, the rehearsal of the morning had been, thus far, a series of blunders. In addition to this, the “star” had failed to make his appearance, and the prospect for a successful evening did not look very bright.

Under these circumstances it was not altogether surprising that Mr. Bowers should feel disappointed and irritated.

It was at this inauspicious moment that Helen was ushered into his presence. The manager looked up with visible vexation, serving to add to the embarrassment under which Helen was already laboring.

“Well?” he demanded, in a quick, impatient tone.

Helen felt that it would be a relief if the floor would open and swallow her up, or if she could escape in some other way. The interview, which had seemed comparatively easy in the quiet of her own room, had now become very formidable. She began to wonder at her own presumption in supposing herself capable of pleasing the public with her simple songs, and to feel that Martha’s partiality must have led astray her better judgment.

While these thoughts were passing through her mind, she sat silent, quite unable to frame a sentence. The manager regarded her with surprise, unable to account for her silence.

“What is your business with me?” he inquired, in a tone which indicated that his time was of great consequence, and the sooner he was left to himself the better he should be suited.

Helen understood the tone quite as readily as the words, and, imperative as it was, it assisted in recalling her to herself. She came to the point at once.

“Do you wish to engage any one to sing for you?”

She had said all that was necessary, and then she stopped, half-frightened at her own temerity.

It was the manager’s turn to look surprised. He had not taken the trouble to wonder what the child’s business was. He had only asked as a necessary form, preparatory to dismissing her. He looked more particularly at her now, noticing her childish form and air, and asked, abruptly,—

“Are you inquiring for yourself?”

“Yes, sir.”

She looked up earnestly in his face. Her bonnet had partly fallen back, revealing the rare loveliness of which she was unconscious. She waited breathlessly for the answer.

“Our company is full,” said Mr. Bowers, coldly. He turned again to his desk, and resumed his writing. His manner said, so plainly, “You may go,” that Helen prepared to obey the unspoken but implied direction. Her heart sank within her at this first disappointment. Thoughts of the coming destitution, which she had hoped to ward off by this means, crowded upon her, and she could scarcely keep back the rebellious tears, which, had she been alone would have had free course.

As she passed slowly out, a messenger hurriedly entered the office.

“Well, what now?” asked the manager, somewhat testily. “Any more blunders? It seems as if everything conspired against us. Has —— made his appearance?”

“No, sir.”

“And won’t, I’ll be bound. These fellows claim the lion’s share of the profits, and trouble themselves little about the convenience of their employers.”

“Miss De Forrest is indisposed, sir, and will be unable to sing this evening.”

“Indisposed! Unable to appear!” repeated the manager, angrily. “And why the d—l must she take this particular evening to be sick? I don’t believe a word of it. Go to her, and tell her we can’t spare her.”

“It is reported,” said the messenger, deprecatingly, for Mr. Bowers was in one of those moods when it was difficult to make him listen to reason; “it is reported that she has a fever, and will not be able to appear for some time.”

“A fever! And what business has she to have a fever?” growled the manager. “Well,” said he, after a brief pause, “is there nobody to take her place?”

“I know of no one.”

Mr. Bowers mused a moment. “It won’t do,” he thought, “to omit the songs altogether, especially to-night, when we are likely to have so many other shortcomings. I have it, Jeffries,” he exclaimed. “Did you notice the child who left the office as you entered?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you think you should know her again?”

“I think so.”

“Then follow her immediately, and bring her back with you. Say I wish to see her.”

When Helen left the theatre, she walked very slowly, as if to gain time to become reconciled to her late disappointment. What a revulsion of feeling had a single half-hour wrought in her! Her high hopes had been dashed to the earth, and nothing was left but a sense of humiliation and rebuked presumption. Had she but been invited to sing, by way of testing her powers, that would have been something; but to have been refused so coldly and peremptorily, might well depress her.

Walking slowly, she had not proceeded far when she heard some one calling after her, “You are to come back. Mr. Bowers wishes to see you.”

Not supposing that she was intended, she did not turn till some one touched her arm, and looking back she recognized the young man who had entered the manager’s office as she left it.

“Did you just leave the theatre?” he inquired.

“Yes,” said Helen, with sudden hope.

“Mr. Bowers would like to see you again, then.”

Helen experienced another revulsion of feeling. The clouds seemed breaking. The recall was evidently favorable to her prospects of an engagement.

Five minutes found her once more in the manager’s presence.

“What is your name?” he asked, abruptly.

“Helen Ford.”

“Humph! that will do. Have you parents living?”

“Only a father.”

“And did he send you here?”

“No, sir,” said Helen.

“Does he know that you have come?”

Helen shook her head somewhat uneasily. New difficulties seemed to be springing up in her path.

“After all,” thought the manager, “if she’s really worth engaging, her father’s consent is not essential. He will not object to her earning something by her voice. At any rate I’ll try her, and see if she has any talent.”

“What can you sing?” he asked, after a pause, in which Helen watched his face eagerly.

“What would you like to hear, sir?”

“Jeffries, what songs are announced for this evening?”

“‘The Widow Machree’ and ‘Comin’ thro’ the Rye,’ sir.”

“Can you sing these, Miss Ford?”

“I will try, sir.”

“Mind,” premised the manager, cautiously, “I don’t promise to engage you, even if your singing is satisfactory. As I said before, our company is already full, but there may be a vacancy some time; and if so, I shall want to know where to look for some one to fill it.”

Mr. Bowers threw himself back in his arm-chair, and, with a magisterial wave of the hand, signalled Helen to begin.

She paused a moment, as if to collect herself, resolutely putting aside the feeling of embarrassment which was stealing over her. She felt that she had too much at stake to hazard all by giving way to nervous weakness. It was not long that she suffered from timidity. She commenced singing in a low voice, but gradually confidence came to her, and it acquired strength. Her voice was wonderfully sweet and flexible. Mr. Bowers started slightly when she commenced, and at once became attentive. More than this, he was charmed. The whole room became vocal with melody. Even on the stage, where the actors were listlessly rehearsing their parts for the evening, Helen’s voice was heard, and they quietly gathered about the entrance, and listened in mute surprise, wondering what musical prodigy had so seasonably turned up to supply the place of Miss De Forrest.

The song ceased, and Helen stood in silence, awaiting the manager’s verdict.

Mr. Bowers had been delighted with an exhibition of talent so far surpassing his most sanguine expectations. But managers are not enthusiastic, and he was far too polite to express all he felt. That would have been quite unprofessional.

“You have done very well, Miss Ford,” he said, graciously. “You have not overrated your talents, as is the case with some who aspire to sing in public. Of whom have you taken lessons?”

“My mother taught me to sing.”

“Indeed! And was your mother a professional singer?”

“Oh, no, sir.”

“She has evidently taught you well. Your voice, too, is very fair,—very fair, indeed.”

“Do I sing well enough to appear in public, sir?” asked Helen, eagerly.

“Yes, or you may in time. Of course, you require training.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“When you were here, a few minutes since, I thought I had no place for you. I have been informed since that Miss De Forrest, my regular singer, is unexpectedly taken ill, and may not recover for some time. I will engage you for a week in her place if we can agree upon terms.”

“I am very much obliged to you, sir,” said Helen, with difficulty concealing her joy.

“I will pay you six dollars for the first week,” continued the manager. “Should you do well, and I have occasion to employ you longer, I may increase your compensation. But, of course, being a beginner, you cannot expect a large salary.”

Large! Six dollars seemed to Helen a small fortune. It would enable them to live better than she had dared to do since they became inmates of Mrs. Morton’s boarding-house.

“You will be expected to make your first appearance this evening, in the songs which you have already sung. You will present yourself at rehearsal to-morrow morning at ten o’clock. We will dispense with it to-day.”

“At what hour shall I come this evening?” asked Helen.

“The doors will open at seven. You may present yourself an hour earlier. It will be necessary for you to dress and become familiar with the stage before the performance commences.”

Helen hurried home, not as before with a heavy heart, but with a feeling of deep and thankful joy. It seemed as if she could not get over the ground fast enough. She was anxious to report her success to good Martha Grey, who, she felt sure, would sympathize with her. She bounded along, regardless of the stares and astonished looks of those with whom she came in collision, and never paused until she entered, breathless with haste, the room of her friend.

“What is the matter, Helen?” asked Martha, looking up from her work. “You seem quite wild with excitement.”

“I have succeeded, Martha. Only think of that. I am to sing to-night at the theatre. I am engaged for a week, and am to receive six dollars.”

“I am sincerely glad, my dear child,” said Martha, affectionately. “Wait till you have recovered your breath, and then you shall tell me all about it.”

As Martha listened to her glowing recital, she caught some of her enthusiasm, and never doubted that she must and would pass triumphantly through the trying ordeal of a first introduction to the public.