"I have brought Mr. Vane's article for the magazine. Can I have the money for it now?" she asked, falteringly. "Very sorry, but the editor isn't in. You may leave the paper, and Mr. Vane can call for his money later in the day," replied the clerk, devouring her sweet face with his bold, admiring eyes. The red mouth trembled, the wide, somber dark eyes brimmed over with quick tears. "He--he cannot come--he is dead!" she answered in uneven tones, "and," flushing crimson in a sensitive shame at her own poverty, "I must have the money to bury him!" "Ah, dead? Very sorry, I'm sure," said the clerk, a little startled out of his coolness; "and you are his daughter?" "Yes, I am Laurel Vane." "The editor doesn't come down to his office till noon. He always examines articles and pays for them himself. Very sorry your father is dead--a fine writer when he chose to take up the pen. Can I do anything else for you, Miss Vane?" went on the bold-eyed young man, rather pitying her sorrow and timidity, inasmuch as she was fair to look upon. "If you will give me the address I will go to Mr. Gordon's private residence. I must have the money without delay," she answered, faintly. He scribbled the address on a card for her, and after bowing her out in his most killing air, he went back to tell the printers that "old Vane had drunk himself to death at last, and left a devilish pretty little daughter without a penny." "With a name as pretty as her face--Laurel Vane!" he added. "He might have had a prouder laurel for his brow than a penniless daughter if he had not been so fond of his glass," said the printers, grimly. And this was Louis Vane's epitaph. While Laurel directed her faltering steps to the editor's up-town residence, all unconscious that the finger of Fate was pointing the way. Mr. Gordon was one of the most successful editors and publishers of the day, and his brown-stone house on one of the fashionable avenues of the great city looked like a palace to Laurel's unaccustomed eyes. She went slowly up the broad steps and rang the bell a little nervously, feeling her courage desert her at thought of the interview with the stern editor. No thought came to her that her first meeting with that august personage would be in a darker, more fateful hour than this. The smart serving-man who opened the door stared at our simply clad heroine a little superciliously. He could not recognize a lady apart from a fine dress. "I wish to see Mr. Gordon, please," Laurel said, with quiet dignity. "Mr. Gordon is out, mem," was the disappointing reply. "Where is he gone? When will he come back?" exclaimed Laurel, in piteous disappointment. "He's gone into the country, and he won't be back until to-night," was the concise reply. The day was warm, but the girl shivered as if the ground had been swept from beneath her feet by the icy blast of winter. An unconscious cry broke from her quivering lips, and she clasped her little hands tightly together.