hered,
but a silent and touching tribute to the absent one.

The room showed every evidence of being occupied, and at a glance it
was easy to guess the vocation and also the sex of the tenant. In the
wardrobe hung a few old dresses, most of them a good deal worn and
shabby, while in an open drawer at the bottom could be seen several old
pairs of women's shoes. On an armchair was thrown a cheap kimona. The
dresser, in keeping with the general meanness, was adorned with
pictorial postcards stuck in between the mirror and the frame, and on
it were all the accessories necessary to the actress--powder box and
puff, a rouge box and a rabbit's paw, a hand mirror, a small alcohol
curling-iron heater, and a bottle of cheap perfume, purple in color,
and nearly empty. On the mantelpiece were arranged photographs of
actors and actresses and pieces of cheap bric-a-brac. Conspicuous in a
corner was a huge theatrical trunk, plastered with the labels of hotels
and theatres. Had the lid been raised, a caller might have seen in the
tray, among the remnants of a once elaborate wardrobe, one little token
that told at once the whole miserable story--a bundle of pawntickets!

Another week had gone by, and Laura's situation, instead of improving,
grew steadily more precarious. An engagement seemed farther away than
ever; it was impossible to secure one of any kind. One disappointment
followed another. Either the companies were all full, or the part
offered was not in her line. Managers consciencelessly broke their
promises; Mr. Quiller and the other dramatic agents were blandly
indifferent. Meantime no money was coming in, and the girl was
completely at the end of her resources. Her clothes were now little
better than rags; very soon she would not be able to go out at all, let
alone make the round of the managers' offices. She owed three weeks
rent to her landlady, a matter-of-fact, hard-as-nails type of woman,
who was not to be put off much longer with mere promises. Unless she
could settle soon, Mrs. Farley would tell her to get out, and then
where could she go?

Perhaps for the first time in her life Laura realized now how utterly
alone she was in the world. Never had it seemed to her so big, so
indifferent, so heartless. Her parents were dead, and as far as she
knew she had no relatives. Friends--so-called friends--were at best
only fair weather acquaintances. There was not one from whom she would
accept assistance. One man would help