There was one difficulty attending the carrying out of her plan which occasioned Helen some embarrassment. She was to present herself at the theatre at six, and would, undoubtedly, be detained there until late in the evening. How she could absent herself so long without incurring her father’s suspicions, was a problem which she found it difficult to solve. Under any other circumstances she would have hesitated about taking a step so important with her father’s consent previously obtained, but now she was impelled, by her very affection for her father, to conceal what she proposed doing until she had taken the first step.

At length Martha proposed that she should openly ask permission to attend the theatre in her company. Mr. Ford, of course, would never dream her real object. Perhaps this was the best plan that could have been devised. Her father only answered, “Certainly, my dear; I hope you will enjoy yourself.”

“But will you not be lonely, papa?”

“I shall be too busy for that, Helen,” he said, glancing at his unfinished model.

Relieved on this point, Helen made the necessary preparations and left the house in company with Martha, who had promised to bear her company as far as the theatre. She did not propose to be present, knowing that under the peculiar circumstances attending a first appearance, and the trying ordeal through which Helen was to pass, the presence of a friend might prove rather an additional embarrassment than a help.

At the stage entrance they parted.

“Keep up good courage, Helen,” said Martha, pressing her hand affectionately; “keep up good courage, and all will be well.”

Helen stood for a moment watching her receding form, and then as the strokes of a neighboring clock warned her to be punctual, knocked at the door. It was opened by Jeffries, the messenger of the morning.

“Miss Ford,” said he, respectfully, “I am directed to lead you at once to the dressing-room.”

Helen was ushered through a dark passage and up a narrow winding staircase to the room referred to. It was crowded with a heterogeneous collection of articles of dress, of every conceivable variety of shade, cut, and material. Here lay the rich robes of royalty in juxtaposition with the coarse attire of a milk-maid. Both had been in requisition the night before.

Helen looked about her with a feeling of bewilderment, when an elderly lady, with a pleasant expression, advanced towards her.

“I am glad to see you, Miss Ford,” she said. “So you are going to join us. I think you have never appeared before.”

“I have never been in a theatre but once before.”

“Bless me, where have you lived all your life?” exclaimed her companion, in unaffected amazement. Her own familiarity with the theatre made her look upon Helen as singularly unsophisticated.

“Papa and I have always lived very quietly,” said Helen, smiling, “and he never goes himself.”

“Before I select a dress for you,” said Mrs. Girdle, for such she informed Helen was her name, “I will show you the stage. You will want to know where to make your entrance and exit.”

Taking Helen’s hand, she led her forward until she stood on the stage—a place of mystery, which to the uninitiated who only see it from a distance in the glare of gas-light, seems like a land of enchantment, peopled by kings and nobles, fair ladies and gallant gentlemen. Now it was dreary and comfortless. A very faint light threw its sickly beams over coarsely-painted scenes and tawdry ornaments.

Was this the stage which had seemed so bright and beautiful to Helen only a few evenings before? It was, indeed, the same. She recognized the green curtain, the use of which had puzzled her, and the long rows of empty seats which stared her in the face when she proceeded to the front. The house itself had undergone as dreary a metamorphosis. Then it was alive with bright and eager faces. Now it was dark and cheerless.

But Helen had little time to spend in looking about her. She was summoned to the side of Mrs. Girdle, who in a business-like manner explained to her what it was necessary for her to know. Helen listened with attention, and promised to remember.

“It is very important that you should bear in mind all I have been telling you,” said Mrs. Girdle. “I can tell you that from my own experience. When I first appeared on the stage as a young girl, I paid less attention than I ought to this point. It was very easy finding my way off the stage in the daytime when there was nothing to distract my attention, but in the evening it was a different affair. I remember doing very well till it was time to withdraw. Then in my excitement I quite forgot all that I ought to have remembered. I turned about in confusion, and seemed to see every eye fixed upon me. I was seized with a nervous terror. The audience I thought were laughing at me. In my desperation I darted forward, little heeding where, and fell through a trap-door which had carelessly been left open. Fortunately I was not injured seriously, only receiving a salutary fright, which taught me to be more careful in future.”

“Do you appear to-night?” asked Helen, with interest.

“I do not play as much as formerly, scarcely at all in fact,” answered Mrs. Girdle, somewhat sadly. “New favorites have sprung up, and my services are no longer required, except in emergencies.”

They had reached the dressing-room, and Mrs. Girdle bestirred herself to find an appropriate dress for Helen. A plain white muslin was selected, looped at the sleeves with blue ribbons. Some little alterations were made in the arrangement of her hair, and Mrs. Girdle seemed satisfied.

“No need of artificial color here,” said she, with a glance at Helen’s flushed cheeks. “Nature has taken care of that. You are really very pretty, Miss Ford.”

“Thank you,” said Helen; “but it sounds strange to have you call me Miss Ford. Nobody calls me so.”

“What is your name, then?”

“Helen.”

“I am glad it is a pretty one. It suits you better. Does no one tell you that you are pretty?”

“Sometimes.”

“And does it not make you feel vain?”

“Why should it?” inquired Helen, seeming surprised.

Mrs. Girdle looked at her with some curiosity. It was long since she had met with one so natural and transparent, and she hardly knew how to understand her. The world she had lived in did not abound in such characters.

“Now, my dear,” she said, after a pause, “since you are quite ready, and there is still a little time left, you had better run back to the stage and just hum over your songs to yourself. In that way you will be getting accustomed to the place.”

Seven o’clock came, and with it the opening of the doors. Then the audience began to assemble at first in small groups afterwards in larger parties, till by and by every available seat was taken. Among them came M’lle Fanchette, the aristocratic modiste, Helen’s fellow-lodger. She wore a superb bonnet of white satin, above which fluttered a feather of stately and imposing elevation, making her a very magnificent personage in her own opinion. She was in unusually good spirits, having secured the escort and attendance of the young clerk, whose youth she regarded as a compliment to her own juvenility, to which she still clung tenaciously. She had in her hand a large opera-glass, which she used with a freedom which made her more conspicuous than her companion desired.

The theatre was crowded—chiefly in consequence of the new play and the new actor. Soon the orchestra commenced playing, and a few minutes later the curtain rose.

The play, in some measure, disappointed the expectations of the audience. The star was but poorly supported by the stock company, who had been compelled to get up their parts at short notice. It was, perhaps, the consciousness of this poor support that made the leading actor’s personation less striking and effective than usual. The audience remained cold, and seldom indulged in applause. It seemed desirable, therefore, that the remaining parts of the performance should go off well.

Helen had watched the progress of the play from one of the wings. Her unpractised eyes could not detect deficiencies, and she became so absorbed as to forget for the time being that she herself was soon to take part. As the curtain fell, the manager walked hastily forward to the place where she stood.

“Miss Ford,” he said, “you will be called immediately. We shall expect you to do your best. Above all, don’t allow yourself to be frightened. Think as little as possible of the audience, and you will do well enough.”

Until this moment Helen had not thought of the possibility of failure. Now the conviction dawned upon her in all its force, that she was about to sing before two thousand people—she who had always lived in such perfect quiet and tranquillity. Her heart began to flutter like an imprisoned bird, and her color went and came. For a moment she felt that she would gladly be back in her humble room by her father’s side. At this trying moment she felt a gentle touch upon her arm. Turning quickly, her eyes rested on the kind face of Mrs. Girdle.

“Oh, Mrs. Girdle,” she whispered, in a tremulous tone. “I am so frightened. I don’t dare to go on.”

“Keep up your courage, Helen,” said her friend, gently pressing her hand. “I can understand your feelings, for I have passed through a similar ordeal. It is a trial, but one through which you will pass triumphantly. You have only to fancy that you are singing in your own room at home. Make a resolute effort, and you will succeed.”

“I will try,” said Helen, more composed.

“Miss Ford!”

It was the call-boy’s voice, and she hurried to the place from which she was to make her entrance upon the stage. Another moment and she stood before the audience. There was something so sweet and simple in her loveliness, that a general murmur of approbation was heard, and then there was a round of applause. This came near unnerving Helen. She caught a glimpse of the sea of faces that were turned towards her, and her head began to whirl. But Mrs. Girdle’s reassuring words came back to her. Above all, the thought of her father, in whose behalf she had taken this step, inspired her with a determination to succeed. The blush of momentary embarrassment which suffused her face did her no harm. It enlisted the warm sympathy of the audience, who again exhibited their good-will by a fresh outbreak of applause.

There was one present, however, who gazed at Helen as if petrified with astonishment.

“Look!” ejaculated M’lle Fanchette, convulsively clutching the arm of her companion. “If there isn’t Helen Ford on the stage. I can scarcely believe my eyes.”

“I believe you are right,” returned the young gentleman addressed. “I had no idea she was connected with the theatre.”

“It can’t be possible she’s going to sing!” ejaculated M’lle Fanchette. “Well, if ever——”

Just then the music struck up.

In a voice slightly tremulous, but gaining in strength as she proceeded, Helen commenced. There was no fear of failure now. She had forgotten the audience. She sang with all the freedom and joyousness of a bird, as if her whole heart was in the song. There was an indefinable charm about her manner, so thoroughly natural in its simplicity. She was evidently winning golden opinions.

As the last note died away, a storm of applause greeted her from all parts of the house. This recalled Helen to herself. No longer occupied by the song, she gazed around her half bewildered, with the air of a startled fawn. At this moment a magnificent bouquet, thrown from one of the boxes, alighted at her feet. Too little accustomed to the stage to understand that it was meant for her, she was about to withdraw without taking it, when a hoarse whisper was heard from one of the wings, “Pick it up.”

Mechanically she obeyed the direction, and bowing hastily, her cheeks burning with confusion, she retreated from the stage.

The manager met her.

“You have done very well, Miss Ford,” he said, encouragingly. “They are calling you back. You must go on the stage once more. And mind you don’t undo the favorable impression you have already produced.”

Go back again! Helen’s heart fluttered nervously, but there was no appeal. She drew a long breath, and went back.

Her re-appearance was greeted with enthusiasm. Then followed a profound silence—a hush of expectation. The clear voice of Helen once more broke the stillness, as she re-commenced her song. Helen’s eyes were directed towards the audience, but she saw them not. She was carried back in memory to the time when she sang this song at her mother’s knee, and unconsciously a gentle pathos and tone of repressed feeling blended with her notes that touched the audience, and hushed them to earnest attention.

There was a hard-featured Scotchman who sat in one of the front seats in the parquet, who, listening intently, furtively wiped a tear from his eye.

“She’s a sweet lassie,” he said, in a low tone, to his neighbor. “There’s a look about her that minds me of one I shall never see again.”

And the worthy Scotchman, whose heart was tender, though his manner was rough and his features hard, thought sadly of a flower that once bloomed in his home, but had faded early,—transplanted to the gardens of Paradise.

“Well!” remarked M’lle Fanchette, fanning herself violently, “to think of the forwardness of that child. If she had any modesty, she wouldn’t brazen it out before the public with so much boldness.”

“She seems modest enough,” replied Alphonso Eustace, to whom this remark was addressed, “and she certainly sings magnificently. Her voice is superb.”

“I saw nothing very remarkable about her singing,” returned the lady, fanning herself with increased violence. “I suppose there are other people that have voices as well as she. I used to sing myself, but nothing on earth would have tempted me to make such a public exhibition of myself.”

Her companion thought it extremely doubtful whether M’lle Fanchette would ever be tempted to break her resolution, but thought it most prudent to remain silent.

Meanwhile, Helen was greeted in a very different manner behind the scenes. Mrs. Girdle came forward, and congratulated her with a beaming smile upon her success.

“You have done beautifully, my dear child. Were you frightened when you first went on?”

“A little; but I remembered your words, and I succeeded in forgetting the audience. I am so glad you think I did well.”

“You couldn’t have done better.”

Of course, Helen was pleased and happy,—happy in the thought that she had pleased those who were interested for her. The thought that she had personally achieved a triumph never presented itself to her. For, in spite of her splendid endowments, she was singularly free from vanity, or even from the consciousness which would have led to such a feeling. Her chief thought was, that she should now be enabled to contribute to her father’s comforts by her pay at the theatre, and that thus he would be able to keep on with his labors, and perfect his invention.

Late at night she reached her humble lodging. Her father was already sleeping. Quickly undressing herself, she crept softly into bed, and in five minutes the weary child was sleeping also.