"Miss Fielding, this is an opportune meeting for you and me."
"I do not understand you, sir," said Flower, in a sweet, timid voice, and he answered, quietly:
"Perhaps not, but I will soon explain to you. Still, this may not be a proper place to begin my story. There is my card. Will you permit me, an old man, and the friend of yourself and your kindred, to call upon you at your home?"
She looked at the bit of pasteboard, and read the name, scrawled in a bold hand:
"William R. Kelso,
"London, England."
Lifting her sad eyes to his face, she said:
"Mr. Kelso, I am staying at the Springville Hotel. I have no home. I was driven from Mrs. Fielding's house, after she was sent to the asylum, by the cruelty of my half-sister. I am indebted to the kindness of a poor colored woman for the means that enabled me to reach this place. I must now seek work that I may have the means of prolonging my miserable existence."
Something like a smile crossed the man's lips at her concluding words, and a grieved look came into her eyes.
Why should he smile at her sorrows, she wondered.
"I beg your pardon for smiling. I know you think me unfeeling," he said. "But you will understand me better when you have heard the good news I have to tell you."