"Golden Glenalvan," answered the girl, and the lady frowned slightly, and said it was too fanciful and pretty. "If you are going to work for your living, I would advise you to call yourself by some plain and common name, such as Jones or Brown or Smith." "Then I will call myself Mary Smith," replied Golden, resignedly. "That will do very well. Now, my child, do you think you would like to undertake chambermaid's work?" She glanced, as she spoke, at the girl's ungloved hands, and saw that they were delicately white and aristocratic, so she answered the question negatively to herself before Golden answered, shrinkingly and timidly: "I do not believe I would like it, madam, but I am willing to try. I must do something to support myself, and I have no choice left me since I do not know how to do anything." The lady looked at her a little wonderingly. "My child, if you would tell me something about yourself I might know better how to help you," she said. "It is quite evident that you have met with reverses. You are unaccustomed to labor, and you look like a born lady." Golden was silent, and a deep blush colored her face. Not for worlds would she have told her sad story to this gentle woman. She fancied that the sweet pity beaming from her gray eyes now would change to scorn and contempt, if she could know that she was a nameless child seeking a lost and guilty mother. "Perhaps you have imprudently run away from your friends," she said, questioningly, and striking so near the truth that Golden burst into tears again, and would have left her but that she detained her by a firm yet gentle pressure of the hand. "Do not go," she said. "I want to help you if I can. Perhaps I could tell you something you are far too young and innocent to know." "What is that, ma'am?" asked Golden, looking at her questioningly. "This, my child--that one so pretty and simple as you are should not be alone and friendless in this great city. You are in the greatest danger. Beauty is only a curse to a poor girl who has to earn her own living." "Yes, madam," Golden answered, with perfect meekness, though she crimsoned painfully. "So I think," continued her kind friend, "that a home and shelter in even the humblest capacity is better for you than to be wandering alone in the streets homeless and penniless." "I know that," said Golden, "but I have nowhere to go," and the pathos of the tearful tone touched the kind lady's heart. "My child, I have been thinking about that," she said. "I have a friend who needs a nurse for her little invalid girl. Should you like to try for the situation?" "Oh, yes," Golden answered, gratefully.