In course of time Helen’s engagement subjected her to a new embarrassment. It was of course late in the evening before she was released from the theatre, leaving her a distance to traverse of more than a mile. At first Martha Grey called for her, but it soon became evident that this was too much for the strength of the poor seamstress. She did not complain, but Helen, with the quick eye of friendship, saw her lassitude and the air of weariness which she strove in vain to conceal, and would not allow her to continue her friendly service.

“But, my dear child,” said Martha, “how will you manage? You ought not to go alone. It would not be proper.”

“I will try it,” said Helen, though her timid nature shrank from the trial. “If necessary, I must get a lodging nearer the theatre.”

“And leave us? I should miss you sadly.”

“Oh, I should expect you to come too,” said Helen. “We would hire rooms close together. But perhaps it will not be necessary.”

So Helen undertook to return from the theatre alone. She might indeed have had her father’s escort by asking for it, but she feared it would prove an interruption to his labors, and perhaps deprive him of the rest which he required. But an incident happened on the second evening which convinced her that it was not safe for her to walk home unattended.

Singing at a popular theatre, Helen’s face naturally became familiar to those who frequented it. There were some among them who were struck by her beauty, and desired to see her off the stage. It happened that a young man was standing near the door of the theatre one evening when Helen emerged from it. He quietly followed her until she reached an unfrequented side street through which she was obliged to pass, and then pressed to her side.

“Good evening, Miss Ford,” he said, accommodating his pace to hers.

Helen looked up startled, and met an unfamiliar face. She remained silent through terror.

“Good evening,” repeated her unwelcome companion. “I hardly think you heard me the first time.”

“I don’t know you, sir.”

“Allow me to remedy that. My name is Albert Grover, at your service.”

“I beg you will leave me, sir,” said Helen, her heart beating rapidly.

“I would rather not, indeed. You are alone, and require an escort.”

“I would rather not trouble you, sir; I shall do very well alone.”

“It is no trouble whatever—on the contrary, quite a pleasure. Will you accept my arm?”

“No, sir, I would much rather not.”

“Upon my word, you are not treating me well. When I announce myself as one of the warmest admirers of your charming voice, I am sure you will not be cruel enough to repulse me. Let me insist, then, upon your accepting my arm for the remainder of your walk.”

Helen was quite terrified by the young man’s persistency. Too young to fear any peril except the annoyance of the present moment, she felt an apprehension which she could not define.

“Pray, leave me, sir,” she said, in accents of entreaty.

“I am sure you don’t mean that,” returned her persecutor, endeavoring to place her arm in his.

Helen screamed faintly. Her call was instantly answered.

“Leave this young lady alone,” said a manly voice, the owner of which seized Mr. Albert Grover with a vigorous grasp.

“Who are you?” demanded the young man endeavoring, but without success, to free himself from his unexpected assailant.

“What you do not appear to be,” was the prompt reply, “a gentleman. Are you not ashamed to annoy a defenceless girl?”

“I only meant to see her home,” was the sulky reply.

“You can spare yourself the trouble. I will undertake that duty.”

“O Mr. Coleman, how glad I am you came up!” said Helen, clinging to her new protector, in whom the reader has already recognized the opposite lodger.

“So am I. But, Miss Ford, do you know how imprudent it is for you to be out at this hour alone?”

“I suppose it is,” said Helen; “but I don’t know what else to do. Martha Grey used to come for me, but I found it was too much for her. Papa would come, but he works so hard that I don’t think he ought to come. And there is no one else.”

“I see how it is,” said the young man. “I shall come for you myself.”

“You, Mr. Coleman! Oh, no, I could not think of troubling you.”

“Indeed, it will be no trouble.”

“If it were for only one evening. But every evening, it would be too much.”

“On the contrary, it will be pleasant for me. I am in my room nearly all day, hard at work. In the evening I cannot work, for painting requires sunlight. So I shall only be taking the exercise I need, and coming for you will give me an object which will insure my taking the exercise I require. You see, therefore, that it is a selfish arrangement on my part.”

“I see that you are very kind,” said Helen, gratefully. “I wish there were any way in which I could repay you.”

“I have a young sister at home, about your age. If she were situated as you are, I should want somebody to be kind to her. Let me look upon you as my sister.”

“I shall be very glad to have you,” said Helen, her confidence completely won.

“Then, of course, I shall not call you Miss Ford any longer.”

“Why not?”

“Because that would be too formal between brother and sister. I must call you Helen.”

“Yes, if you like,” said the child, more and more pleased. “It is very pleasant to have a brother.”

“Then you will call me Herbert?”

“Is that your name?”

“Yes. Will you call me so?”

“Perhaps so, by and by. I must get used to it, you know.”

“I think that will soon come, for we shall be a good deal together now.”

Helen felt quite relieved by this new arrangement. The next evening Mr. Coleman presented himself promptly at the theatre, thereby disappointing Albert Grover, who was in waiting to repeat his annoyance of the previous evening.

“You may as well give it up,” said Helen’s escort, with a significant glance at the young man. “Henceforth, this young lady will have an escort able and willing to chastise all who are disposed to offer her annoyance.”

Helen clung to his arm with a feeling of unspeakable relief.

“Don’t tremble, Helen,” said he, kindly. “You are safe with me.”

“You are very kind to me,” said Helen.

“That is my duty. You have promised to be my little sister, you know.”

“Have you begun a new picture yet?”

“Not yet. I thought I could see where I might make some alterations for the better in the picture you have seen. I shall try to get it admitted to the Academy by and by, unless I succeed first in obtaining a purchaser.”

“It is so beautiful, I should think it would be easy to find a purchaser.”

“If all looked at it with your partial eyes, Helen. But I have no reputation, and an established name goes a great ways.”

“But you will become famous some day.”

“I hope so, but it will be many years first. I must work for bread and butter before I work for fame.”

“Can’t you work for both at the same time?”

“I hope so. But sometimes an artist, under the spur of necessity, is compelled to deny his highest aspirations, and work for present profit. From that temptation I am relieved at present,” the young man added, laughing, “since my pencil is not yet in demand.”

They had now reached the door of the lodging-house, and stumbled up the dark staircase to their rooms.

“Good night, Mr. Coleman,” said Helen.

“So it is still Mr. Coleman?”

“Good night, Herbert,” said Helen, timidly.

“Good night, little sister. Good night, and pleasant dreams.”