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 rooms in order as you did for your father. Will you come, Laurel?"
"Who is the person?" she inquired, flushing sensitively at his familiar utterance of her name.