"Relatives I have none. My husband and children have all gone before to the better land. My friends are few. A woman as rich as I am does not know how to trust in friendship. Only think, child, my husband has left me two millions of dollars, and I have neither kith nor kin of my own to leave it to. I am utterly alone in the world." "As I was until I met--Vane," Reine murmurs silently to herself, while a look of sympathy flashes from her beautiful eyes upon the lonely rich woman. "The friend I cared most for on earth," Mrs. Odell continues, sadly, "was my maid, who died just a few days before you were rescued. She was a girl of culture and refinement, rather above her position, and a friend, rather than a servant. I have missed her sadly, as much for her company as her services." "Did she die suddenly?" Reine asks, with a sigh for the poor girl who had found a watery grave far from her native land. "Yes, very suddenly, from an unsuspected heart disease." After a minute's silence Mrs. Odell resumes, pensively: "Do you know what I have been wishing, Miss Langton?" "I cannot even guess," Reine replies, wonderingly. "I have been wishing that you could take that poor girl's place with me. Not as my maid, of course, but as my friend and companion. I have grown to like you so much since you have been lying here ill and suffering. I have taken care of you as far as my own feeble state would allow. Do you think you could be my friend, child?" "I am sure I could; that is, if you would not suspect me of designs on your property. I am an heiress, myself," Reine returns, with such naive, innocent pride that Mrs. Odell's pain-drawn lips part in an amused smile: "You simple child. No one could suspect you of anything. There is no guile in that charming face," she answers kindly. "Thank you. I shall be very glad of your friendship, and hope I may be of some account to you," Reine murmurs. "It is settled then," Mrs. Odell says, with evident satisfaction. "You are to be my friend and my guest, the same as a daughter to me, until you leave me to return to America, which time, I hope, may be far off yet, for I shall not like to lose my little friend." "Do not say that," Reine cries out quickly. "I should hate to grieve you, but I have two dear ones who would grieve to think that I was dead. I must let them know the truth as soon as I can." CHAPTER XXIV. Poverty is a great persuader. Numberless times it has forced people to put their pride in their pocket. Vane Charteris, moping along in his law-office, finds such a dearth of clients that it would seem the world is for once at peace. Nothing happens to break up the dull monotony of his life, or put a fee into his lank pockets. True, invitations pour in upon the "handsome rising young lawyer," but these he declines on the score of his mourning.