Helen Ford. Alger Horatio Jr.

gazing abstractedly from the window.

      “Your father does not say much,” said Mrs. Morton, unable to repress her curiosity.

      “He has a great deal on his mind,” said the child, lowering her voice, and looking cautiously to see whether he heard her; but the report of a pistol would scarcely have disturbed him, so profound seemed his meditations.

      “Oh!” said the landlady, somewhat surprised; “business, is it?”

      “No,” said the child; “not exactly business.”

      Observing that the landlady looked thoroughly mystified, she added, quietly, “Papa has a great genius for inventing. He is going to make a discovery that will give him money and fame. He is thinking about it all the time, and that is the reason he doesn’t say much. I wish he wouldn’t think quite so much, for I am afraid it will hurt him.”

      Mother Morton looked at the father with a sudden accession of respect.

      “Perhaps there is something in him, after all,” she thought. “There must be, or this little girl, who has a great deal more sense than many that are older, wouldn’t believe in him so firmly. I suppose he’s a genius. I’ve heard of such, but I never saw one before. I must think well of him for the child’s sake.”

      “I hope your father’ll succeed,” she said aloud, “for your sake, my child. I am going down stairs now. Is there anything you would like to have sent up?”

      “Nothing, thank you.”

      “One thing more. Your names, please?”

      “My father’s name is Robert Ford. My name is Helen.”

      “Good afternoon, Helen. I hope you will like your room.”

      “Thank you; I am quite sure I shall.”

      The landlady descended the stairs, wondering a little at the sudden liking she began to feel for her young lodger.

      CHAPTER II.

      THE DREAMER

      The light of a June morning lent a warm and cheerful look to the broad streets, and under its influence even the dingy lanes and alleys looked a little less gloomy than usual. The spell which had lain upon the city during the night season was broken. Here and there might be seen a vegetable cart or a milk wagon rumbling through the streets, of late so silent and deserted. Sleepy clerks unlocked the shops and warehouses, and swept them in readiness for the business of the day. Hackmen betook themselves to the steamboat landings in the hope of obtaining a fare before breakfast. Creeping out from beneath old wagons and stray corners where they had been able to procure shelter and lodging, came the newsboys, those useful adjuncts to our modern civilization. Little time wasted they on the duties of the toilet, but shook themselves wide awake, and with the keen instinct of trade, hurried to the newspaper offices to secure their pile of merchandise.

      Morning found no sluggards at Mrs. Morton’s boarding-house. With the first flush of dawn she was astir, ordering about her servants, and superintending the preparations for breakfast. This must be ready at an early hour, since her boarders were, for the most part, engaged in some daily avocation which required their early attention.

      With the early sun Helen rose. Her father was still sleeping. From the nail on which it hung she took down her bonnet, and, with a tin pail depending from her arm, she left the room with softened tread, lest she might awaken her father. Betaking herself to a baker’s near by, she bought a couple of loaves of bread, and stopping a milkman, had her pail filled with milk. A half-pound of butter purchased at a grocery completed her simple marketing, and she hastened home.

      When she entered the boarding-house, her cheeks were flushed with exercise, her eyes sparkled with a pleasant light, and her rare beauty, despite her plain attire, appeared to unusual advantage. She returned just in time to meet the boarders descending to breakfast. Her childish beauty did not fail to attract attention. Conscious of being observed, Helen blushed a deeper crimson, which added to the charm of her beauty.

      “Hey! What have we here?” exclaimed Alphonso Eustace, the dashing young clerk, fixing a glance of undisguised admiration upon her embarrassed face. “A very Peri, by Jove! Deign to inform me, fair maid, by what name thou art known.”

      So saying, he purposely placed himself directly in her path.

      “Will you let me pass, sir?” said Helen, uneasily. “My father is waiting for me.”

      “Your father! Then you live here. I am glad of that. We shall be well acquainted before long, I hope. Won’t you tell me your name?”

      “My name is Helen Ford,” said the child, rather reluctantly, for the clerk did not impress her favorably.

      “And mine is Alphonso Eustace. Let us shake hands to our better acquaintance.”

      “I have both hands full,” returned Helen, who did not much relish the freedom of her new acquaintance.

      “Then I will await another opportunity. But you don’t seem gracious, my dear. You must be very tired, carrying that heavy pail. Allow me to carry it for you.”

      “I am not at all tired, and I would much rather carry it myself.”

      Helen managed to slip by, much to her relief, and somewhat to the discomfiture of the young clerk, who could not conceal from himself that his overtures had met with a decided rebuff.

      “Never mind,” thought he; “we shall be better acquainted by and by.”

      “By the way, Mrs. Morton,” he inquired, “tell me something about the little fairy I met on the stairs. I tried to scrape acquaintance with her, but she gave me very short answers.”

      “I suppose it was Helen Ford,” returned the landlady. “She is a little fairy, as you say. Is your coffee right, M’lle Fanchette?”

      “Quite right,” replied that lady, sipping it. “What room do the little girl and her father occupy?”

      “The fourth story back.”

      “Ah, indeed!” said M’lle Fanchette, elevating her eyebrows. It was easy to see that lodging in the fourth story back was sufficient in her eyes to stamp Helen as one whose acquaintance it was quite beneath her dignity to cultivate.

      “She has a very sweet, attractive face,” said Martha Grey.

      “Beautiful! angelic!” exclaimed Mr. Eustace, with enthusiasm.

      “I don’t see anything very beautiful or angelic about her,” remarked M’lle Fanchette, who would much prefer to have had her dashing neighbor’s admiration bestowed upon herself.

      “You should have seen the beautiful flush upon her cheeks.”

      “So I did.”

      “And did you not admire it?”

      “I happened to look into the kitchen yesterday,” returned M’lle Fanchette, passing her plate for some toast, “and I saw Bridget who had been over the hot stove all day, with just such a pair of red cheeks. Did I admire her?”

      There was a momentary silence. All who had seen Helen, felt the injustice of the comparison.

      “There is no accounting for tastes,” interrupted the landlady, somewhat indignantly. “If you had seen the tenderness with which she waits upon her father, who, poor man, seems quite incapable of taking care of himself, you would find that she has a heart as beautiful as her face. Her beauty is not her only attraction.”

      “What does her father do?”

      “That is more than I can tell. Helen says that he is an inventor, and that he has made some discovery which is going to make them rich.”

      “After all,” thought M’lle Fanchette, “it may be well to notice her. But they are poor now?” she said aloud.

      “Yes. They seem to have little baggage, and dress quite plainly. They cannot have much property.”

      Meanwhile, Helen, quite unconscious that she had been a subject of discussion among the boarders, drew out the table