"No, Mr. Hudson. Father is very poor. I haven't any relations. We have no friends here nor anywhere near. We lived in Europe till quite lately--a fishing village in Normandy. I--I shall have to get some work." "Say!" It was an ejaculation of pity, but there was a note of triumph in it, too; perhaps the joy of the gratified philanthropist. "Now, look-a-here, little girl, the price of that picture will just about cover your expenses, eh?--board and--er--funeral?" Sheila nodded, her throat working, her lids pressing down tears. "Well, now, look-a-here. I've got a missus at home." Sheila looked up and the tears fell. She brushed them from her cheeks. "A missus?" "Yes'm--my wife. And a couple of gels about your age. Well, say, we've got a job for you." Sheila put her hand to her head as though she would stop a whirling sensation there. "You mean you have some work for me in your home?" "You've got it first time. Yes, _ma'am_. Sure thing. At Millings, finest city in the world. After you're through here, you pack up your duds and you come West with me. Make a fresh start, eh? Why, it'll make me plumb cheerful to have a gel with me on that journey ... seem like I'd Girlie or Babe along. They just cried to come, but, say, Noo York's no place for the young." "But, Mr. Hudson, my ticket? I'm sure I won't have the money--?" "Advance it to you on your pay, Miss Arundel." "But what is the work?" Sheila still held her hand against her forehead. Hudson laughed his short, cracked cackle. "Jest old-fashioned house-work, dish-washing and such. 'Help' can't be had in Millings, and Girlie and Babe kick like steers when Momma leads 'em to the dish-pan. Not that you'd have to do it all, you know, just lend a hand to Momma. Maybe you're too fine for that?" "Oh, no. I have done all the work here. I'd be glad. Only--" He came closer to her and held up a long, threatening forefinger. It was a playful gesture, but Sheila had a distinct little tremor of fear. She looked up into his small, brown, pensive eyes, and her own were held as though their look had been fastened to his with rivets. "Now, look-a-here, Miss Arundel, don't you say 'only' to me. Nor 'but.' Nor 'if.' Nary one of those words, if you please. Say, I've got daughters of my own and I can manage gels. I know _how_. Do you know my nickname? Well--say--it's 'Pap.' Pap Hudson. I'm the adopting kind. Sort of paternal, I guess. Kids and dogs follow me in the streets. You want a recommend? Just call up Mr. Hazeldean on the telephone. He's the man that fetched me here to buy that picture off Poppa." "Oh," said Sheila, daughter of Mark who looked at stars, "of course I shouldn't think of asking for a recommendation. You've been only too kind--" He put his hand on her shoulder in its thin covering and patted it, wondering at the silken, cool feeling against his palm.