“Er—Laura!” he hazarded, very uncomfortably. The hand gestured again. “Go _away_!” beseeched a stifled voice from the depths of the pillow. Mr. Priestley laid an uncertain hand on a slim shoulder. “Laura!” he repeated unhappily. “Er—please don’t cry.” A fresh spasm shook the slender form. “Oh—oh, _please_ go away!” choked the voice from the pillow. Mr. Priestley hesitated. This was really very awkward, very awkward indeed. But it was too late to draw back now. He had come up here to soothe, and soothe he must. In the meantime, his heart-strings were being twanged to a positively painful degree by the pathetic spectacle of this intense suffering. “L-Laura!” he squeaked in imploring tones. Nothing happened. “Oh, dear!” said Mr. Priestley. His heart-strings continued to twang. It was too much. The vast sympathy which had been flooding Mr. Priestley’s soul for this poor forlorn little creature suddenly burst its bounds and swamped his self-consciousness. With nothing more than the instinctive impulse of the adult to comfort a child in the only way it really understands, he sat down on the edge of the bed, gently kissed the white nape and, noticing not at all the resulting very faint exclamation, gathered the slim frame up into his arms. Its owner, after a half-hearted attempt to resist, laid her dark head on his shoulder and there continued to choke. “There, there!” said Mr. Priestley, patting gingerly. “It’s all right, my dear, it’s all right.” For a moment Laura raised a very red face, stained with real tears. “But—b-but you—you h-haven’t _got_ a b-broken nose!” she articulated with difficulty, and at once plunged into a further paroxysm, her head flying back to the shelter of Mr. Priestley’s shoulder like a bird to its nest. Somewhat mystified, Mr. Priestley continued his ministrations. Why exactly the wholeness of his nose should be a source of such poignant grief to the poor little thing, escaped him for the moment; but the anguish was only too evident. He patted in silence for a space, then he rocked. By degrees Laura grew more calm. She ceased to shake, and disengaged herself from Mr. Priestley’s soothing arms, still keeping her head averted. A fresh spasm shook her slightly from time to time, but not so violently. “I’m all right now,” she said weakly, scrambling off the bed. “But please don’t l-look at me.” “No,” said Mr. Priestley at once; “of course not.” He also rose and hovered uneasily. Laura made her way, with somewhat uncertain steps, to the wash-stand, where she contemplated herself in the mirror with watery eyes. “Oh, my hat, what a ghastly fright!” was her verdict, and clinging to the marble edge, she collapsed again. “Are you sure you’re all right?” asked Mr. Priestley of the wardrobe opposite, hearing with dismay these renewed sounds of distress behind him.