TRUE to her resolve, HelÈne called the next morning at the “Agentur fÜr Gouvernanten,” the address of which she found in a directory at the hotel. The experience was a disappointing one. The official gave her a form to fill out for her name, address, accomplishments and references. The registration fee was six marks, payable in advance.

As she had no references to give, since she did not wish any of her friends to know where she was, she filled in the form without the references.

HelÈne began to realize that finding a situation might take a much longer time than she had expected. She, therefore, decided to leave the expensive hotel and take a room at a modest pension. She was soon accommodated and spent her days mainly in reading and answering the advertisements in the daily papers and the “Teacher’s Journal.” On two occasions she received replies requesting her to call, but nothing came of her visits—she could give no references. She persevered, however, convinced that something would turn up some day.

The days lengthened and the snow had disappeared altogether from the streets. In the park, where she loved to take her walks on sunny afternoons, the keepers were busy cleaning up the grass plots and planting flowers. The trees were beginning to burst into foliage; the leaf buds of the lindens were swelling; the birches began to show their pretty little pussy-tails and the sparrows and starlings were twittering their first spring songs. The faces of the people she met took on expectant and hopeful expressions.

One beautiful, sunny morning she received a letter from a Frau Professor Heimbach, asking her to call in response to her application for a governess for her two children. The Frau Professor lived on the second floor in Hegel Strasse.

HelÈne had no doubt she had at last succeeded in getting what she had been hoping for. She was so overjoyed that, for the first time in months, she sang while eating her breakfast. She arrayed herself in her best clothes and set out looking the very incarnation of the lovely spring weather.

Hegel Strasse looked like the very place in which a Frau Professor might live. It was in a very respectable neighborhood and the house itself a faded remnant of a one-time dignified and imposing structure.

With a beating heart HelÈne ascended the unadorned, cold stairway and pulled the bell-knob below the brass-plate which indicated that Professor Albert V. Heimbach, Ph.D., lived within. She could hear in the distance the shrill tinkling sound of the bell. After what seemed to her an eternity the door opened and an unkempt maid with a red upturned nose appeared. To HelÈne’s request to see the Frau Professor, the servant made no reply, but looked her over very carefully from head to feet. The inspection appeared to be satisfactory, for the girl nodded and beckoned to HelÈne to come in.

At the end of the narrow entresol and sharply outlined against the bright light which came from a distant room, HelÈne saw a tall, slender woman approaching.

“What is it you wish, Madame?” she inquired of HelÈne.HelÈne explained that she had come in response to the Frau Professor’s advertisement for a governess.

“Come into the room, and be seated.”

In the increased light of the sitting-room HelÈne faced a tired and somewhat faded woman, still young, but of a most meagre appearance, and painfully flat-chested, with pale bluish eyes and thin bloodless lips. The close fitting bodice of her dress accentuated the length of a thin neck which stuck up from her shoulders and seemed as if it were a stalk bearing the small head above it. She spoke in cold, knife-edgy tones.

“Have you had any experience as a governess of children, FrÄulein?”

“No—Frau Professor—but....”

“Pardon me, FrÄulein—answer only my question, if you will be good enough. Have you any references from your pastor, or the Council of your district?”

“No, gnÄdige Frau Professor.”

“Do you feel yourself competent to teach my two children the subjects of the North German School curriculum?”

“I think I am quite competent. I am fond of children and....”

“Pardon me, I did not ask you for that information. Have you ever taught children?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Where?”

“At Gratz—I assisted the Sisters of the Holy Heart.”

“What are your accomplishments?”

“I speak French very well—also English. I play the piano, draw and paint a little and can embroider and sew.”

The Frau Professor’s face seemed as if it might have been touched by a faint interest—it almost smiled. Painting and embroidering were evidently desirable qualities. She had kept her feet crossed during the examination but she now separated them and displayed a pair of shabby shoes sadly down at heel. Leaning forward she examined the very young applicant carefully but not unkindly.

The door leading to an adjoining room, just at that moment, slowly opened, and after a few moments HelÈne saw a curly-headed, blue-eyed little girl stretch its head into the room. The mother turned quickly and called out: “Close the door, Emilie—you must not be inquisitive.” The child disappeared instantly. HelÈne felt sorry to see her go—her heart had gone out to the dear little thing.

The interruption seemed to have acted on the Frau Professor as a reminder of her position. She leaned back and folding her arms gazed for a long time at HelÈne’s face and clothes with a dreamy look in her eyes. Finally, she seemed to make up her mind and began to speak, at first hesitatingly and then more firmly:

“FrÄulein, will you let me tell you something—something which I believe you will thank me for hereafter? You are looking for a position as governess in a family. By your own admission you have had no experience in such work and cannot furnish testimonials.”

HelÈne turned pale and then reddened.

“I want to be perfectly frank with you,” resumed the thin lady; “I admit that your accomplishments, your appearance and your manners are greatly in your favor; but you are seeking for employment in the wrong direction, FrÄulein.”

“Oh, Frau Professor,” cried HelÈne eagerly, “I can learn; and I am so anxious to please. I would love to teach your children, and I am sure they would like me. I shall try to make them like me. Won’t you just give me a trial, please?”

The Frau Professor’s brow clouded and her face turned a brick-red color. With an effort she seemed to be suppressing her feelings. Then, laying a hand on HelÈne’s gloved ones, she bent over and in a softened voice said:

“My child, you cannot and should not expect that from me. Ten years ago when I married I was a blooming, fresh girl like you are, though, perhaps, not quite so attractive. Look at me now. See what those ten years have done for me.”

She stood up and stretched out her arms. It was a pathetic gesture.

“My husband is a kind and good man. He has his work to do and his studies. But the romance of his life—so far, at least as I can affect it, has gone out of him. Look at me and you will see what the drudgery of household duties, the care of children, the worry of making both ends meet, have made of me. My youth has departed from me, and with it have gone all the joy I have known and all the beauty I ever possessed.

“Do you expect that I should bring a beautiful young being like you into my home? Why, my dear, your presence would be a daily reminder to me, and to my husband, of my helplessness and futility. I could not compete with you. And there is not a woman in Hanover who would dare risk it. I am not doubting you. I am sure you are good and pure. But we are all fighting to keep the little flame of our husband’s admiration still burning in his heart for us. It is so small that it would die, oh, so easily if ... ah, my dear FrÄulein, it is impossible.

“Take my advice and marry some good young man. Or, if you must find an occupation, look for it where women do not rule. Forgive me for my plain speaking; I do not mean to pain you. Were I a great lady with a magnificent household and many servants, I would engage you without a moment’s hesitation. As it is, it is out of the question. I ask your pardon, FrÄulein Barton, and wish you a good morning and good luck.”

HelÈne knew not how she found herself in the street, but the sunshine seemed as if it had been washed from the sky suddenly as by a soiled rag. She walked mechanically, her heart numb, her brain dulled, without knowing where she was going. She had but one conscious feeling—to hide herself, to be alone. At the corner of the street she hailed a ’bus and shrank into its remotest corner. She allowed it to pass her pension; she would go into the park and sit there and think over what she should do. There at least she would not be molested. The trees and birds and children would not chide her.

In a quiet circular spot edged with boxwood she found a seat on a bench in a sunny corner where the tender green of the shrubbery spoke of a reawakened life. The sparrows hopped about her for the cake crumbs she threw them. It was too early in the season for the nurse maids and their perambulators and only occasionally a park gardener would pass along the walk wheeling his barrow of turf or soil and leaving behind him the fresh scent of earth.

HelÈne sat in a pathetic mood, too depressed to think. Her encounter with the world had stunned her, and she found herself utterly at a loss how to renew the attack. Suddenly, she heard the crunching sound of quick, firm foot-treads on gravel. Turning her head in the direction of the sound she saw a tall, fine-looking woman coming straight towards her. As she approached nearer, HelÈne noticed that she was young and neatly dressed in a smart tailor-made costume which set off to advantage a splendid, though rather stout figure. She recalled now that she had seen this young woman in the rooms of the Arts and Crafts Exhibition, and had admired her freedom and grace of movement, so unlike that of the other women. Evidently she was a foreigner.

In passing, the lady gave HelÈne a smile of recognition; then stopping suddenly, as if on a second thought, she turned back and went up to where HelÈne was sitting.

“Do you mind my sitting here?” she asked with a smile.

HelÈne was so surprised at being spoken to by her that she could only nod her assent. She passed her gloved hand quickly over her face to wipe away the tears that had fallen unbidden.

“Don’t mind me, FrÄulein. I know how you feel. I’ve been in trouble myself.”

HelÈne looked up and met two kindly brown eyes looking in sympathetic admiration into hers. The face, with its healthy coloring and expression of good nature, drew her in spite of herself. She could not resist its strong appeal. Smiling bravely, she said:

“I am in trouble; but I feel ashamed of my weakness in giving way. Thank you for your sympathy.” And rising, she made as if to go.

But the other put a restraining hand on her arm.

“Please, don’t let me drive you away. I’m a stranger here. Won’t you sit awhile for a chat. I think I saw you at the Art Exhibit. My name is Margaret Fisher. I am an American and am here on business. Don’t be frightened, I can assure you I’m a perfectly proper person. I may be able to help you, if you will let me, FrÄulein.”

“You are very good,” replied HelÈne, reseating herself. “I, too, am a stranger here. This is my first visit to Hanover. My name is HelÈne—HelÈne Barton.”

“HelÈne—what a pretty name! Then you are not a native, though you talk like one. Well, I’m not looking for information, thank goodness. Are you staying long here, Miss Barton?”

“For a few weeks only. Both my parents were German born, but I know no one in this city.”

“Then you are alone and an orphan, just like myself. Well, we should be friends, then.” She drew a tiny watch from her belt. “It’s past twelve; won’t you come and take lunch with me? I should enjoy having you.”

“Thank you. I shall be delighted. Do you live near?”

“I’m staying at the Metropole. I suppose you live in a pension. Much better; but I’m only a transient—here to-day, gone to-morrow.”

“Yes, I live at a pension; but I often go out for my lunch.”

“Good, then we’ll go to the Park restaurant. It’s nice and quiet there, and we can have a good talk. You needn’t be afraid to come. I’m big enough to chaperon you.”

HelÈne laughed happily. It was so comforting to hear her friendly, soft, confident voice.

“You certainly look as if you could take care of yourself, Miss Fisher.” The two laughed as they walked towards the restaurant.

The good luncheon which Miss Fisher ordered proved an excellent solvent for HelÈne’s state of mind, and Miss Fisher herself knew well how to break down any barriers of restraint that might still remain. It was evident that she wanted to help this young and beautiful girl in distress, and when a woman of Margaret Fisher’s temperament makes up her mind, there is nothing that will stop her.

It was not long, therefore, before HelÈne had unbosomed herself of all her anxieties and told her new-found friend of the difficulties which she had encountered in her efforts to find some occupation. Miss Fisher looked at her admiringly with tender, motherly eyes.

“Poor dear!” she exclaimed, “I know all about it. I’ve been through it myself. My father was a German—his people lived near Hanover, which is one of the reasons why I am here. My business brought me to Europe and I took the opportunity to look them up. I am the head of a high-class dressmaking and millinery establishment in New York, Madame Lucile’s, and I came on a buying trip. I’m going back next week—as soon as the new models are ready for me.”

“It must be splendid to be so capable as you are,” HelÈne remarked with a sigh of regret.

“Ah, but you don’t get there, my dear Miss Barton, without a great deal of heart-breaking work. It’s not so easy as it looks.” Miss Fisher’s face clouded a little as if recalling an unpleasant past, but her face resumed its bright and alert expression almost before the shadow had left it. She looked at HelÈne’s beautiful countenance for a long time and then suddenly she said:

“Won’t you let me help you? You are too young and too pretty to fight this battle alone. It will make me happy, if you will. I have lots of money—my firm pays all the expenses.”

“You are more than kind, dear Miss Fisher. Thank you. I know you mean well; but I’ve some money of my own. I’m not so helpless as all that.”

HelÈne spoke with her gentle and distinguished courtesy, smiling charmingly at the same time.“My dear—let me call you HelÈne, won’t you?—thank you. You see I’m much older than you are, both in years and experience of life. We’ll drop the subject for the while; but let’s stick together so long as I’m in Hanover, shall we?”

“I shall be only too pleased. You are so encouraging and so—strong. You make me feel very hopeful.”

“That’s all right. We’ll just go about and see the sights. Maybe we’ll think something out before my week is up.”

They spent the afternoon together, and HelÈne promised her new friend to call on her that evening at her hotel to look over the purchases she had made.

The evening provided a rare experience for HelÈne. Miss Fisher showed her a collection of wonderful laces, ribbons, trimmings, jets and ornaments which had been acquired for the New York market. What impressed HelÈne more, however, was the quick decisive manner with which Miss Fisher explained everything; the nimble hands which displayed the articles to their best advantage; the ready words which fell from her lips in praise of their qualities. HelÈne had never imagined a woman could be so capable, and at the same time so jolly and witty.

Miss Fisher, in her turn, had not failed to observe in her shrewd way, how quickly HelÈne assimilated the information, and how alert the girl’s mind showed itself, in spite of its natural reserve. The remarks, too, she let fall evinced a taste and judgment quite rare. She insisted on taking HelÈne to her pension in a cab, and promising to look in on her in her exile, as she put it, left her in a happier state of mind than she had known in many a day.

Miss Fisher returned to her hotel in a very thoughtful mood. She knew enough of life to guess that her young acquaintance was a gently nurtured girl of a refined family, unhappily thrown upon her own scant resources, and in danger of being wrecked on the rocks. Her beauty, her gentle ways and voice, the pure, simple mind she had shown, all had made an indelible impression on her and had won her completely. She made up her mind to befriend her.

The next morning HelÈne was surprised to realize how eagerly she was looking forward to Miss Fisher’s coming. The short acquaintance, so unusually begun, had so quickly ripened under the benign influence of the American girl’s way of doing and saying things that HelÈne was quite conquered. It was all so novel and yet so humbly pleasant that she wished it would go on always.

This was the first of a number of meetings between the two. Miss Fisher sounded HelÈne, and soon became convinced she was really in earnest. She did not probe too deeply into the girl’s family history—only just enough to find that her judgment had been correct. She learned that HelÈne could speak English—and what a charming English it was, too! She was sure Madame Lucile would be delighted with her. She would be a real acquisition to the business, she felt convinced of it.

“See here, my dear,” she said suddenly on one of their walks, “why not come with me to New York? You tell me you have neither friends nor relatives and not even an admirer—so there’s nothing to keep you here. Come with me, and I’ll see that you get a position. New York is a beautiful city with more opportunities for a girl than any other place in the world. You needn’t be afraid; I’ll look after you. We can have a little apartment together and live the jolliest of lives. You are a born artist, as I saw from your drawings and sketches. I am sure you’ll get a good position with the people I’m with. Will you come? Say the word, and we’ll fix it up.”

HelÈne’s big blue eyes opened wide in astonishment at her friend’s words.

“Do you really mean it? Can I really do the things you say?”

“Of course you can,” and she put her arms around HelÈne and kissed her. “We’ll be a couple of the happiest girls in Manhattan. And no man shall come between us, either, miss—do you hear? Oh, I’m so happy.” And Miss Fisher forgot her dignity and jumped again. “I can just see Madame Lucile’s expression when she sees you. I’ll tell her I’ve brought the cleverest designer of hats in Europe—the peer of modistes! And won’t Miss Foucher, the head trimmer, stare! Hooray.”

It did not take Miss Fisher long to make all the necessary arrangements for the voyage. She had HelÈne’s berth engaged, a steamer trunk at her lodgings and a quantity of necessary purchases made in less time than it would have taken HelÈne even to think about them. The money she spent seemed enormous to HelÈne.

“Never mind, my dear. These things cost far more in New York, where you’ll want them—and you’re saving money by buying them here. It’s dollars in New York—not marks. Just you leave it to me.”

HelÈne looked on aghast and could make no answer. Miss Fisher had told her she was “some shopper,” and she had certainly not exaggerated. The way she made the clerks skip about sent the cold shivers down HelÈne’s spine. By dusk every article had been arranged for, and there was now nothing to do but wait until the next morning’s train, which would take them to Bremen.

As this was to be the last evening before sailing, Miss Fisher proposed a “blow-out.” They’d have dinner together and go to the opera. With Miss Fisher, to propose was to act. The dinner was most enjoyable, and the opera, “Romeo and Julietta,” neither of them had ever heard, so that they had, as Miss Fisher put it afterwards, “the time of their life.”

As they parted for the night, they decided to pay a visit to the park in the morning and have luncheon in the restaurant there, for old time’s sake, before taking the train.

The day opened cold and blustering. But Margaret saw in it a good omen. “Leave in rain and arrive in sunshine,” she quoted from some hidden recess in the treasury of her knowledge. But it didn’t prevent them shivering in the park.

“Wait until we get to New York. That’s the place for sunshine, if you like. And not only sunshine, my dear HelÈne, but a sunny life.”

To HelÈne, Bremen was a most bewildering place. If it had not been for Margaret she would never have known where to go or what to do first. But Margaret knew everything. She saw that the tickets were correct, saw to the tickets for the dock at Bremerhaven, had their baggage carefully labeled and checked and wound up at the big steamer as fresh as when they had left Hanover. Immediately they boarded the vessel Margaret saw to the stateroom, found out which side of the ship was the sunny side and had their deck chairs marked and placed there. She saw the chief steward and arranged with him for good seats at the dining table; she found the stewardess who was assigned to their cabin and came to a satisfactory understanding with her also.

“You see, my dear HelÈne,” she explained to the now utterly bewildered girl, “we’re going to live on this boat for eight days. We’d better be comfortable while we are here. We might be good sailors, and then we might not. You never know. So it’s best to be on the safe side. If either of us get seasick now, that stewardess will look after us.”

The great foghorn sent out a roaring sound that seemed to HelÈne loud enough for the whole world to hear. Clumsily, at first, the big ship moved, and then, as she gathered headway, steamed out into the gray expanse of the seeming boundless sea. HelÈne gazed with bated breath and beating heart at the fast receding land. There was no turning back now. She had indeed burned her bridges. How would she fare in this new land to which she was sailing?

A strong arm slipped round her waist and a warm hand clasped hers in a firm, motherly grip. Margaret had seen the expression on the poor girl’s face and had come to give her comfort.

“Have no fear, dear, all will be well.”

HelÈne let her head fall on her friend’s ample breast and looked up to the soft brown eyes that were so kind in their meaning.

“You are a great comfort, dear friend. I shall always love you, Margaret.”

The voyage was calm and uneventful. The weather was fine all the way and they enjoyed the eight days on the Atlantic as though they were two school-girls out on a vacation. On the morning of the eighth day the good ship steamed majestically up the Bay and landed the girls on the Jersey shore, from whence HelÈne had a river view of New York.

But the impressiveness of that sight was nothing to her to the noise and rush of the city itself when she found herself being carried rapidly on the street railroad. A feeling of terrible depression came over her. It was all so dirty, so uncouth, so raw. From all sides came clanging of bells, shrieking of whistles, raucous cries. A wretched drizzle was falling from a leaden mist of sky. The people hustled and jostled each other, hot and steaming from under waterproofs and umbrellas. They seemed an endless stream of humanity coming apparently from nowhere and going anywhere and everywhere.

But to Margaret it was glorious. She sniffed the raw, damp air and her cheeks glowed.

“Oh, but it’s good to be back! My proverb didn’t hold out! We landed on a wet day after all. Well, never mind. It’ll rain sunshine to-morrow. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Oh, no, Margaret. I think it’s wonderful.” What traffic! What life! Her voice was drowned in the thunder of trains rushing over their heads. They were traveling along the avenue towards Margaret’s rooms. HelÈne marvelled how the people could bear up under such dreadful noises. Surely their senses must get dulled and deadened in time! They crossed Broadway at the risk of their lives, as it seemed to her, but Margaret had HelÈne by the hand and laughed aloud. Soon they entered a quiet square in the center of which was a little park shut in by iron railings. Margaret explained that this was Gramercy Park where she lived.

Ascending the brown stone steps of a house near the entrance to the square, Margaret pressed the bell button. The door had barely opened when a loud, glad exclamation greeted the two girls.

“Oh, Miss Fisher, I am so glad to see you.”

“Hello, Jane! How are you? How’s Mrs. Kane? Well? Ah, that’s good. Tell her I’ve brought a friend who is going to stay with me. My room’s ready, I suppose? Good. Well, we’re going upstairs, but we’ll be down for lunch. I’ll be glad to see Mrs. Kane if she can come up.”

Then turning to HelÈne she smiled:

“Come along up, HelÈne. Our things won’t be here for some time; but we’ll get along somehow.”

Soon they were joined by the landlady, a pleasant-faced, middle-aged little woman with a gentle voice and manner. She greeted Margaret affectionately and shook hands with HelÈne on being introduced to her.

“My friend will stay with me, Mrs. Kane, if you don’t mind, until you can find her a room. Have you one free?”

“Yes, Miss Fisher, but it’s only the hall bedroom on this floor. Will it do?”

“Of course it will. Fix it up for her, there’s a dear.”

The landlady left, casting admiring glances at HelÈne.

“Helen, dear—it’s to be Helen now, no French edgings here, you know. Are you happy?”

HelÈne for answer went up to Margaret and putting her arms around her neck laid her head on the tall girl’s breast.

“You are too good to me, Margaret.”

Margaret was deeply moved.

“Who could help being good to you, my dear,” she said, stroking HelÈne’s hair.

When night came and HelÈne laid her tired head on the soft pillow of her bed in the little hall-room, she breathed a prayer of deep gratitude. Mr. Morton was right. His country was God’s own country. Then into her heart crept a feeling of sweet gladness. Perhaps—she would meet him again—her knight, sans peur et sans reproche. And, smiling, she slept.