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.