The next morning Helen, on reaching the theatre, sought the presence of Mr. Bowers.

The manager was seated in his office, as usual. He nodded carelessly as Helen entered, but did not invite her to be seated.

“Well, Miss Ford,” he said, after a while. “What can I do for you, this morning?”

“I should like to have you release me from my engagement, if you please, Mr. Bowers.”

“Release you from your engagement!” ejaculated the astonished manager. Then, in a tone of indignation, “I suppose you have had a larger offer elsewhere.”

“No, sir.”

“What can be your motive, then? I beg you to understand, Miss Ford, that a contract is a contract, and must be kept. Of course your place could be supplied, but it is annoying to make a change in the middle of the season.”

This last remark was thrown in, lest Helen should presume upon her value to the establishment to demand a higher salary. Indeed, the manager suspected that this was her object, and wished to anticipate her.

“I was afraid it might inconvenience you,” said Helen, gently; “and am willing, in requital, to refund the whole amount of wages that I have received from you.”

Mr. Bowers stared at Helen in undisguised astonishment. She must have had a very brilliant offer to warrant her in making such a proposal.

“Did I understand that you have had no other engagement offered you?” he inquired, abruptly.

“No, sir. I do not wish to sing any more in public.”

“It will pay you better than anything else you can do.”

“I ought to explain that I have had a fortune left me, or rather papa has, and under our new circumstances it would be inconvenient for me to come to the theatre every evening.”

“Indeed, Miss Ford!” said Mr. Bowers, his tone changing. “I congratulate you. I hope, for your sake, it is a large fortune.”

“Mr. Sharp tells me that it will be a few hundred thousand dollars,” said Helen, simply, without the least trace of exultation in her tone.

“A few hundred thousand dollars!” exclaimed Mr. Bowers, in profound astonishment. “Pray, take a seat, my dear Miss Ford. Hang my stupidity, why didn’t I think to offer you one before?”

And Mr. Bowers bustled about, and offered Helen a seat with as much deference as if she were a duchess. It was easy to see that she had risen immeasurably in his estimation.

“Did the property come from a relation?” he asked.

“Yes, sir; from my grandfather.”

“Was his name the same with yours, Miss Ford?”

“No, sir. His name was Rand.”

“Not the late Gerald Rand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why he was one of our most substantial citizens—lived on Fifth Avenue. And to think I should have had his granddaughter singing in my theatre! Well, wonders will never cease.”

“If it wouldn’t inconvenience you too much to release me,” said Helen, returning to her petition; “I like to be with papa in the evening. He is lonely without me.”

“By all means, Miss Ford, I would oblige you even were the inconvenience ten times as great,” said Mr. Bowers, obsequiously.

“Thank you, sir; you are very kind. I shall be willing to sing for you the rest of the week, so as to give you time to find some one to fill my place.”

“Will you?” asked the manager, eagerly, seeing at once how he might turn Helen’s accession of fortune to profitable account; “you will indeed confer a great favor upon me by so doing. It will take me some time to fill your place, and I cannot hope to obtain a substitute who will become such a favorite with the public.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Helen, rising to go. “Then I will go to rehearsal.”

“Thank you rather, my dear Miss Ford,” said the manager, rising from his seat and opening the door for her. “I shall not forget your kindness.”

Helen could not help wondering a little at the change in the manager’s manner, and, unversed as she was in the ways of the world, she could not help seeing that it was the result of her change of circumstances.

Meanwhile the manager was not idle. The morning papers contained the following paragraph, the authorship of which may at least be suspected.

Romance in Real Life. We understand that Miss Helen Ford, the young vocalist whose charming melodies have made her such a popular favorite, has just come into possession of a splendid fortune, inherited from her grandfather, Gerald Rand, Esq., the well-known capitalist, whose death was recently noticed in our columns. Miss Ford has kindly agreed to sing as usual through the present week, when she will leave the stage forever.

The effect of this paragraph may be imagined. That evening hundreds were turned away from the theatre, which was crowded to its utmost capacity. Never had such an audience been seen within its walls. When Helen appeared on the stage, quite unaware of the paragraph which had produced this effect, she was received with long-continued applause. The vast audience seemed inspired with a sudden enthusiasm.

Helen was surprised, but did not lose her self-possession. She sang with her usual sweetness, and was immediately encored. Again she sang, and this time was called before the curtain. Several bouquets were thrown her, which she picked up, and hastily withdrew.

If Helen had been older, she would have understood the meaning of this ovation. As it was, she only wondered.

Behind the curtain she met the manager, smiling, and rubbing his hands in evident glee.

“My dear Miss Ford,” he said, “this is indeed a triumph.”

“The house is very full,” said Helen.

“And hundreds turned away; never was such a house seen.”

“I am very glad of it,” said Helen.

“So am I; let me see, this is Tuesday evening. Friday you shall have a benefit. One third of the receipts. It is only fair, since you have drawn this immense audience.”

Helen would have declined the offer, but for a sudden thought. When she first became connected with the theatre she noticed a thin fragile girl, who danced between the plays. The exertion was evidently too great for her, for she was often seized with a violent fit of coughing after withdrawing from the stage. For a fortnight Helen had missed her. On inquiry, she learned that Alice (this was her name) was sick. “Poor girl,” added the prompter, who was her informant, “it is a great misfortune, for she has an invalid sister who is dependent upon her for support. I am afraid she won’t get along very well, for her salary was small, and now it is cut off altogether.”

It occurred to Helen that she could give the proceeds of her benefit to Alice. She accordingly thanked Mr. Bowers, and accepted his proposal.

The week was a series of triumphs. Every evening the doors of the theatre were besieged, and every evening hundreds were turned away.

Friday evening,—the evening of her benefit,—Helen found the house fuller, if possible, than before, the manager had taken the opportunity, in consequence of the great demand for seats, to raise temporarily the price of admission. As he anticipated, this did not in the least diminish the throngs who crowded for admittance.

On Saturday morning he handed Helen a check for five hundred dollars, as her share of the proceeds.

Helen’s eyes sparkled with joy, as she thought of the happiness which this sum would bring to the poor ballet girl.

She lost no time in seeking her out.

It was indeed a poor place, Helen would have been afraid of venturing into such a locality if she had not been accompanied by Herbert Coleman.

Up a rickety staircase she climbed, and was shown, by an untidy woman, into a room wholly destitute of comforts, where on a pallet reclined Alice and her sister, both sick.

“Is that you, Miss Ford?” asked Alice, her face lighting up. “How very kind you are to come and see me!”

“I am very sorry to find you so sick,” said Helen.

“I don’t think I am very sick,” said Alice. “But this is but a poor place, and I cannot get any one to take care of my sister Jennie. She has been an invalid for years.”

“There are better times in store,” said Helen, cheerfully, “First we must have you moved to a better room. Next you must have a nurse.”

“But,” said Alice, hesitatingly, “we are very poor. I never had anything but my salary to depend upon, and now that is cut off.”

Helen stooped and whispered a few words in her ear.

“Five hundred dollars!” repeated Alice, in astonishment, “that is a fortune. Who has been so generous?”

“Never mind!” said Helen, smiling. “You see, then, that you are not so poor as you imagined. Now do you think, if I sent a carriage for you in the course of the afternoon, you can move?”

“Yes,” said Alice, in a tone of deep thankfulness. “No one can tell how much I detest this horrible place. I think it will make me well only to move.”

Over the wasted face of her sister there stole an expression of deep and thankful joy.

“I think you are an angel,” she said, looking up into Helen’s beautiful face, radiant with sympathy.

Helen blushed.

“How pleasant it is to be able to make others happy!” she said, softly, to Herbert.

“Do you know, Helen,” said the young artist, “I am half tempted to agree with your patient there.”

“Brother Herbert,” said Helen, quickly, “you must not speak so. I am only doing what you would do in my place. I don’t like to be praised for only doing what is pleasant to me.”

Before night Alice and her sister were installed in a comfortably-furnished room, with a nurse in attendance, who was directed to do whatever was needful for the comfort and relief of her patients.