“She’s their winning card,” began the German again, but with a sudden exclamation his companion interrupted him. “Great Jerusalem, Otto, just hear that voice! Who the mischief is she? Quick! She’s down here with that preacher!” “A regular Patti!” cried the German, hurrying. “Bosh! Patti isn’t in it with that girl!” was the answer. “Why, her voice is like a lark—it’s as fresh as a wild flower! And that’s about what she is,” he added as he caught sight of the singer. Both men stood spellbound as Marion finished the hymn. They had removed their hats almost involuntarily as they listened. As Marion’s last note died away she looked around in embarrassment. The spell of exaltation had left her—she was almost frightened. “Thank you,” said Mr. Haley in his cordial way. “That was a treat, indeed, and the hymn is a grand one.” “I couldn’t help singing,” said Marion, simply. “It is one of our old hymns that we sing up in the country.” The crowd stared at her curiously as she turned away, and would probably have applauded had not the preacher objected. “No! No! Not now! Not at this time!” he said, smiling. “The child is a friend of mine; she only did it to help me.” “She’ll make more converts than you will, Mr. Haley!” called a jovial voice in the crowd. The preacher laughed good-naturedly as he answered. “I hope she will, I am sure, Mr. Smythe. It would be a pity if that voice could not cheer the soul of some poor sinner.” Marion was hurrying away, when two men stepped up to her. “I beg your pardon, miss,” said Marcus Rosen, the song writer, politely, “I have just been listening to your beautiful singing. You have a magnificent voice. Pray tell me who trained it.” Marion looked up at him sharply and saw the eagerness in his face. “It has never been trained, sir, by any one,” she said, simply. “I sing as I feel—I know nothing of method.” “Well, you are one in a thousand,” said the man again. “But tell me, are you engaged to sing anywhere at present? Would you accept an offer if my friend here should make you one?” Marion stared at the speaker in blank amazement. She could hardly believe that such good fortune could come to her. “I will, indeed,” she said, very timidly; “but as I told you at first, I know nothing about singing.” The German, whose name was Otto Vondergrift, took a card from his pocket and handed it to her. “Call on me to-morrow morning at ten o’clock,” he said. “I have a little song that I want you to learn, and then if you will sing it at my opening concert I will give you one hundred dollars.” Marion tried to thank him, but burst out crying. “I will be there without fail,” she finally managed to stammer. “You could have got her for a tenspot, Otto,” said the younger man as they walked along. “Can’t you see, she’s from the country and mighty hard up? You must be getting a little reckless with your ducats.”