LITMIR.BIZ

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upward to meet her gaze.

      "Oh, yes, yes, it is very important," she faltered, incoherently. "Perhaps you could—that is, if you would—"

      Miss Gordon smiled a little at the tripping speech, but not unkindly.

      "Come in. I will do what I can," she said, and led Laurel past the discomfited Charles into a lovely little anteroom, with flowers and books and pictures, that made it a little feminine paradise.

      She pushed a little cushioned blue-satin chair toward Laurel.

      "Sit down and tell me what you want of papa," she said, gently; and Laurel's impulsive heart went out in a great flood of gratitude to this beautiful stranger who looked and spoke so sweetly.

      She grasped the back of the chair tightly with both hands, and turned her dark, beseeching eyes on Miss Gordon's face.

      "I have brought Mr. Vane's manuscript for the magazine," she added. "He—my papa—is dead," she added, with a rush of bitter tears, "and we are so poor I must have the money to pay for his funeral."

      Instantly Beatrix Gordon drew out her dainty pearl port-monnaie. "You poor child!" she said, compassionately. "What is the price of the article?"

      Laurel named it, and Miss Gordon counted the money out into the little trembling hand, and received the manuscript.

      "I am very sorry Mr. Vane is dead," she said. "He was a very gifted writer. Has he left you all alone, my poor girl?" with gentle compassion.

      "All alone," Laurel echoed, drearily.

      Then suddenly she caught Miss Gordon's hand, and covered it with tears and kisses.

      "You have been so kind and so noble to me, that I will do anything on earth for you, Miss Gordon," she sobbed out, gratefully.

      Then she hurried away to bury her dead, little thinking in what way Beatrix Gordon would claim her promise.

      CHAPTER II

      "Come in," said Laurel, faintly, in answer to the sharp rap at the door.

      The cheap, plain funeral was over, and the orphan sat alone in the deepening twilight in the shabby little room, now invested with a somber dignity all its own since the presence of death had so lately been there.

      Laurel's head was bowed upon her hands, and tears coursed slowly, each one a scalding drop of woe, down her white cheeks.

      The door opened, and the woman from whom Mr. Vane had rented the two shabby little rooms entered abruptly. She was a coarse, hard-featured creature, devoid of sympathy or sensibility. She looked coldly at the weeping girl.

      "The rent's due to-day, Miss Vane," she said, roughly. "Have you got the money to pay it?"

      Laurel silently counted over the contents of her slim purse.

      "Here is the money, Mrs. Groves, and it is the last cent I have on earth," she said, drearily, as she placed the silver in the woman's greedy outstretched hand.

      "Is that so? Then of course you'll not be wanting the rooms any longer. I will trouble you to move out early in the morning, so's I may rent them to somebody else," exclaimed Mrs. Groves.

      Laurel sprung to her feet in dismay, a terrified look on her fair young face.

      "Oh, madam, I have nowhere to go—so soon!" she cried out pleadingly. "Perhaps you will let me keep the one little room until I can find work. I will be sure to pay you!"

      "I can't depend on no such uncertain prospects," declared Mrs. Groves, unfeelingly. "I've got to be pretty certain where my money's coming from before I rent my rooms. So out you go in the morning, and if you don't leave quietly I'll have your trunk hoisted out on the sidewalk in a jiffy, so there!"

      With this emphatic threat the rude landlady banged herself out of the room, and Laurel sunk down with a low moan of terror upon the floor.

      She was no coward, reader, this forlorn little heroine of ours, but she knew scarcely more of the wide world outside her cheap lodging-house than a baby. She had lived in one poor place or another with her erratic father all her life, keeping their poor little rooms with untaught skill, meagerly supported by his neglected talent, and with not an idea of how to earn her own living. Mr. Vane had educated her after his own desultory fashion, but not in a practical way that she could utilize now in her need. She wondered with a shudder of dread what she should do, and where she should go to-morrow when she was turned out into the streets, of which she felt horribly afraid, and which her father had seldom permitted her to traverse alone.

      She pushed open the casement and looked out. Night had fallen, and under the glare of the gaslight Laurel saw wicked men and ribald women tramping the streets. To-morrow night she would be out on the horrible pavements among them, with nowhere to go, and not a friend in all the wide, wicked city. Perhaps they would murder her, these wolves of the street, when she was cast out like a helpless white lamb astray from the fold.

      Shivering, she recalled some verses she had somewhere read. They seemed to fit her own forlorn strait.

      "Where the lamps quiver

      So far in the river,

      With many a light

      From window and casement,

      From garret to basement,

      She stood with amazement,

      Houseless by night."

      "Oh, what shall I do?" she moaned, tremblingly. "It were a thousand times better, papa, if I had died with you."

      The room door opened suddenly and without warning, and Mrs. Groves reappeared.

      "Here's a young man asking for you, Miss Vane. P'r'aps he'll tell you how to make a honest living now your pa's dead," she said, with a coarse, significant chuckle.

      She hustled the visitor across the threshold, and, closing the door, stumped loudly down the passage, but returned in a moment on tip-toe, to play the eavesdropper.

      The room was all in darkness save for the gaslight that streamed through the open window. Laurel turned quickly to light her little lamp, wondering who her visitor might be.

      To her amazement she saw the rather good-looking and bold-eyed clerk she had met at the publishing-house that morning.

      "Good evening, Miss Vane," he said, insinuatingly. "I ventured to call, thinking that you might need a friend."

      The quick instinct of purity took alarm in Laurel's breast. She drew back coldly as he offered her his smooth, white hand.

      "I needed a friend this morning, but you did not seem to remember it then," she said, scathingly.

      "I—ah—oh, I was taken by surprise, then. I had not my wits about me," he stammered, disconcerted. "Pray pardon my forgetfulness. I have been thinking about you all day, and wishing I could help you. Here is my card. Pray command my services."

      Laurel took the bit of gilt-edged pasteboard, and read the name written on it in smooth copper-plate. It was

"Ross Powell."

      The young man had seated himself, meanwhile, with the coolest self-possession. Laurel looked at him with her great, wistful, dark eyes.

      "Do you really mean what you say?" she inquired, a faint ring of hope in her dejected voice.

      "Yes. I infer that your father has left you without means of support, and I wish to offer you a good situation," Mr. Powell replied, suavely, with a sparkle in his bold gray eyes.

      The girl clasped her little hands impulsively together. Hope and fear struggled together on her fair young face.

      "But I don't know how to do anything," she cried, ingenuously. "I have never been to school like other girls. I've always kept papa's rooms and mended his clothes, and made my own dresses, but I couldn't do anything like that well enough for any one else."

      Ross Powell's gray eyes sparkled wickedly. He kept the lids drooped over them, that Laurel might not see their evil gleam.

      "Oh, yes, you could!" he exclaimed. "I know some one who wants a little housekeeper just like you, to keep two beautiful

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