t she nearly upset the
coffee-pot, and she continued to laugh at her own wit until a fat
letter was pushed under her door from the hall outside. She picked it
up. It had an English postmark.

"Helena Markham!" she cried, joyously.

DEAR TOMMY: [the letter read]

Don't you want to come over to London for the season? You never
make any money at home from June to October, and if by chance
you have a penny in the bank (I don't know why I say "if" when
none of us ever had such a thing!) I think I can put enough in
your way to pay part of your expenses. I am really beginning to
get on!--three engagements in the provincial towns all arranged.
My accompanist plays lots better than you do, but I don't sing
half so well with him as I used to with you. You somehow infuse
the spirit into me that I lack. I incline to be lumpy and heavy.
They may not notice it in the provinces, for I dare say they are
lumpy and heavy there, too. However, though I shall have to have
somebody well known over here for concerts of any great
pretensions, I could work you into smaller ones, and coach with
you, too, since I must have somebody. And you are so
good-looking, Tommy dear, and have such a winning profile! I am
plainer than ever, but no plainer than Madame Titiens, so the
papers say. I never saw or heard her, of course, but the critics
say I have the same large, "massive" style of voice and person.
My present accompanist would take first prize for ugliness in
any competition; he is more like a syndicate of plainness than
one single exemplification of it! I must have a noble nature to
think more of my audiences than of myself, but I should like to
give them something to please their eyes--I flatter myself I can
take care of their ears!

Oh, do come, Tommy! Say you will!

HELENA.

Tommy pirouetted about the room like an intoxicated bird, waving the
letter, and trilling and running joyful chromatic scales, for the most
part badly done.

"Will I go to London?" she warbled in a sort of improvised recitative.
"Will I take two or two and a half lessons of Georg Henschel? Will I
grace platforms in the English provinces? Will I take my two hundred
dollars out of the bank and risk it royally? Perhaps the bystanders
will glance in at my windows and observe me giving the landlady
notice, and packing my trunk, both of which delightful tasks I s