Maria smiled gratefully at him, and leaving the apartment ran down stairs to the letter-box in the hall, returning a moment later with the morning mail, which she put beside Lola’s plate.
“Four letters,” said Lola, glancing over them. “One for me, a bill! Two for you, father.” She pushed them across the cloth. “And, Maria! Oh, Maria! This is for you. Oh, Maria! You’re blushing. Who do you suppose it’s from,” she teased, as Maria stepped forward eagerly and took the letter.
“I guess, Miss,” said Maria in confusion, “I guess it’s from a friend of mine.”
Lola looked after her, as she hurried out of the room, the precious letter clutched tightly in her hand.
“Poor girl! That is from her sweetheart, the one she calls Mr. Barnes, and she can’t read it.”
“I thought you were to teach her,” remarked her father, as he helped himself to a second piece of toast.
“I am trying my best,” answered Lola, “but she never had a chance before, that’s what makes it so hard for her now.”
“She has done wonders since you found her, my dear girl. She has caught the spirit of this great New York, and she is growing very fast.”
“Hello!” he exclaimed, as he opened the first of his letters. “From Paul Crossett.”
Lola looked up, surprised and pleased, as her father hastily read the brief note, and continued.