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Her stern face relaxed at the girl’s smile and thanks; the soft English voice attracted her. At luncheon Pamela, depressed after a fruitless half-hour’s scanning of advertisements, was pleased to find herself beside her grey-haired friend. They talked a little, and Mrs. Taylor, who had been studying the childish face and the mouth which was so obviously trying to be firm, yet would tremble a little occasionally, said quietly as she rose to go: “Will you come and have a talk with me in my room when you come upstairs! You are alone here, and so am I. I should like a chat.”

Pamela, starting at a step, suspicious of the most innocent question, never doubted the trustworthiness of Mrs. Taylor as a confidant. Within the next hour she had told the greater part of that story which painted her cheeks crimson and white by turns as she spoke. Of her reasons for leaving England she said little—no word of Tony or Trent Stoke. It did sound so like a melodrama, and she felt she could not endure to see a shadow of disbelief in her new friend’s eyes, even if she had really wished to speak of it. The history of her visit to California was difficult enough—she choked and faltered often—Mrs. Taylor must be pardoned if she naturally filled in gaps with conclusions of her own. The poor child had been badly frightened evidently, but it was not likely that she had been entirely blameless all through. Still, she was very young, and a flirtation, carelessly begun, was perhaps excusable. There was certainly no actual harm in the girl; one could not accuse those blue eyes of deliberate guile. Now what was to be done for her Mrs. Taylor positively revelled in “sad and deserving cases.” To hold out a helping hand to a weak or persecuted sister was untold joy to her, only, once that hand had been extended, the stumbling one must cling to it utterly—she must be restored and uplifted in Mrs. Taylor’s own way, and woe unto her if she