CHAPTER X. CHAPTER X. A STARTLING SUGGESTION. The gossip in the cloak-room was at its height the next morning when Faith entered promptly at half-past seven. She looked around for Miss Jennings, but did not see her. The next moment her attention was attracted by a short conversation between two of the saleswomen. "Well, Jack Forbes is dead at last, poor fellow," said one of them, "and they say that his father is all broke up over it. Jack was his ideal always. It's sure to go hard with him." "He deserves his trouble if ever any one did," was the indifferent answer. "He's made life miserable for lots of young men who were just as worthy as Jack ever was and just as much beloved by their mothers and fathers." "Well, he's being punished now all right. They say he looks like a ghost. Wonder if he'll have the good taste to close the store! Or will he keep open that day to make funeral expenses?" There was a shout of laughter after this remark, and Faith was surprised to see how many of the girls joined in it. "Oh, here you are," said a voice at her side. She turned and was delighted to see Miss Jennings. "How pale you look, Mary! Did you tire yourself too much last night?" she asked quickly. "Really dear, you should have stayed at home. You are sick abed this very minute!" "That would mean a dollar, my dear Faith," said Miss Jennings sharply. "I've lost three already this month so far and as I'm liable to need a coffin soon I must keep at work and earn it!" "Don't, Mary!" cried Faith, in genuine distress. "Don't joke about such things, dear. I can't bear to hear you." "As well laugh as cry," said Miss Jennings shortly; "but I hear that Jack Forbes is dead. I'm in hopes the firm will show proper decency by giving us a holiday." "Oh, they'll do that all right, if it is only for the looks of the thing," cried one of the girls who had overheard her. "You can trust them to keep up appearances before the public, even if they dock us a day's pay in order to square it." "They would never do that!" cried Faith in dismay. "They'd do it if they dared," was the answer; "they are not above it." "There is Mr. Gibson now," whispered another girl as the form of the manager appeared in the doorway. "The store will be closed to-morrow," he said, shortly, "so you girls want to be smart and make all the sales you can to-day. Remember that you are expected to do your best in such emergencies." As he went away the clerks all looked at each other. "That sounded just like Forbes himself," giggled one of the girls. "I'll bet ten dollars he sent down that message." "Well, we all get a day off anyway," said another, "and for my part I'm glad to laugh once while Old Forbes is crying. The shoe is on the other foot generally and we girls do the weeping." "I wonder if that detective will annoy me to-day," whispered Faith to her friend. She had already told her of the proposition which Hardy had made to her. "I wonder who the fellow is who has got his eye on you," said Miss Jennings, soberly. "It's the same old story. They think because we are poor that we are to be bought and sold like puppets. You'd be surprised, Faith, to know how men look upon us girls, but never mind about it, dear; Hardy can't do anything until the superintendent comes back, and by that time Mr. Watkins may have found the money." "Who is Mr. Watkins?" asked Faith, who had quite forgotten the young man. "He's the superintendent's lackey, but they call him an assistant," said Miss Jennings, with a slight blush. "He's a remarkably fine young man who would be honest if he could, but, poor soul, he's like the rest of us—tied hand and foot! If he expresses an honest opinion, out he goes into the street, and that means that not only himself but his mother would starve." "I remember him now," said Faith; "he was in the superintendent's office when I applied for my position. I liked his looks; he seemed refined and honest. I wish I could help him, but—Oh, Mary, what's the matter?" Miss Jennings had suddenly put her handkerchief to her lips. When she took it down there were blood stains upon it. "Nothing, dear," she said as soon as she could speak, "only the last end of a hemorrhage that I had this morning." "But do you have to work to-day? Is it really necessary?" urged Faith. Miss Jennings turned to her quickly and opened her pocket-book. There were seventeen cents and a small photograph in the purse. Faith had just time to recognize the picture as that of Mr. Watkins when Miss Jennings closed the book with a flush of annoyance. "That's all I've got to last out the week, Faith," she said between her coughs, "and I have a crippled brother at home, a last legacy from my parents." She hurried up the stairs, with Faith close behind her. In five minutes the work of the day had begun; goods were being taken deftly from the shelves and displayed upon the counters. Miss Fairbanks was on hand and as cross as ever. She went around like a virago and scolded nearly every one in her department. When Maggie Brady came in she looked weary and jaded, and the paint on her face made her more conspicuous than ever. During a lull in the business Faith heard her speaking to Miss Fairbanks in a tone that showed plainly that she was very confidential with the buyer. "Jim Denton took me to the theatre last night and we had an elegant supper after. It cost him a pile, I tell you, for I just laid myself out to be expensive. It's the only way I have of getting square with the firm. What the old man makes his son blows in; that's right, ain't it, Fairbanks?" she winked at the woman as she finished. "Sure," replied Miss Fairbanks in a lower tone; "but look out for him, Mag, there's a new star in the heavens. I wouldn't trust Jim Denton around the corner, and you wouldn't either if you were wiser." "Oh, I'm not afraid of that, if that's what you mean," said the girl. She nodded her head in Faith's direction, but did not deign to look at her. "She's a beauty all right," was the buyer's reply, "and she doesn't have to improve on nature a little bit, eh, Maggie?" "She won't keep that color long in this store," sneered Miss Brady. "She'll fade like all the rest of us, and it won't take long either." "Miss Fairbanks," gasped Miss Jennings from behind the counter, "I can't stand up any longer. You will have to excuse me." "Well, you do look sick, so I suppose you can go. But as it is only ten o'clock I shall have to call it a full day, Miss Jennings." "Call it anything you like," whispered Miss Jennings hoarsely; "only let me lie down, on the floor or anywhere." Faith sprang down from her high perch without an instant of hesitation. "Let me take her to the cloak-room, please, Miss Fairbanks," she begged. "Miss Jennings is my friend—do, please, let me take her." "Nonsense! Get back to your desk this instant, packer! If she is too sick to go alone one of the cash girls can take her. Come, hurry along; there are customers coming." Faith gave a despairing sob as she climbed back to her seat. Miss Jennings was desperately ill—she was sure of it. Suddenly it occurred to her what a really brave fellow Mr. Watkins was. She had heard Mr. Forbes tell him to have Miss Jennings discharged, yet for two days he had disregarded the order. That, and the picture of the young man in Miss Jennings' purse told Faith a story as plain as words could have done. The two were lovers, she was positive of it, she began to wonder if Mr. Watkins knew of his sweetheart's condition. "Move faster there, packer!" called Miss Fairbanks crossly. "Can't you see the lady is waiting for her parcel while you are loitering?" "Oh, I am in no hurry at all, madam," said a calm, lady-like voice. "Do not hurry the poor girl, please. She is probably tired." "She has no right to be tired at this time in the morning"—Miss Fairbanks was trying to be polite, but her voice was still snappy. "Are you never tired at this hour?" asked the lady, calmly. "I frequently wake tired, and from no especial reason. In this case I should think it surprising if she ever felt rested." "Oh, they get used to it—we all do," said Miss Fairbanks, stammering. "Or, at least, we must do our work just the same. We are not supposed to have feelings." "Pray, tell me who are your judges, madam?" The lady spoke more sharply. "Who dares to say that human beings who earn their living have no feelings?" "Well, if they don't say so out loud that is what they think," replied the buyer. "Why, we'd be discharged before night if we were to complain of too much work. They want machines in these stores, and we are the nearest substitutes." "Well, why don't you all rebel and force your employers to think differently? Mind, I don't tell you to do it. I am just asking for information." "It would do no good; we would simply lose our places, and for each one of us there would be ten applicants to-morrow." Miss Fairbanks spoke the truth, and she spoke it sadly. For the second time Faith was inclined to think that the woman was not bad-hearted. "The law should step in and regulate such matters," said the lady. "So much authority should not be allowed to a few human beings. A few arrests for manslaughter would not be amiss. I have just seen one woman who is being killed by this slavery, and there are plenty more behind these counters." "But no jury could convict our employers, if that is what you mean." Miss Fairbanks was gasping over the startling suggestion. "I'm not so sure," said the lady thoughtfully. "If they could see what I have just seen they might possibly do it There is a young woman dying this minute down in that villainous cloak-room." With a smothered groan Faith sprang swiftly to the floor. "It is Mary—my friend," she cried out in agony. "No, Miss Fairbanks, you shall not stop me! I will go to Miss Jennings!" CHAPTER XI. A DEATH IN THE CLOAK-ROOM. When Faith reached the cloak-room she found a scene of the wildest confusion. A number of clerks and cash girls were surrounding Miss Jennings, who lay on the floor upon a pile of wraps which they had hurriedly thrown down for her. Mr. Gibson, the manager, was bending over her with a glass of water in his hand, and was giving orders right and left in an excited manner. "Go for a doctor, some one!" he cried. "No, get an ambulance—that will be better! The officer on the corner will call one for you. It will never do to have her die here! The newspapers would all get it, and goodness only knows what they would say about us." He raised his head as he spoke and found himself face to face with the new packer in the ribbon department. She was as white as chalk and her eyes were flaming with anger. "How dare you send her to a hospital when she is so ill?" she whispered, sharply. "Get a physician here at once, sir, and a glass of wine instead of water." She pushed her way through the group of frightened girls and looked upon her friend, whom she saw at once was unconscious from weakness. "Stand back a little, girls, and give her air," she cried, firmly. "There is none too much ventilation in this place, Mr. Gibson; quick—lower the windows if you can, sir." Without dreaming of disobeying, Mr. Gibson sprang to the window. There was something so commanding in her manner that she fairly over-awed him. The next moment he had dispatched cash girls for a doctor and some wine, even taking the money out of his own pocket to pay for the cordial. Faith had succeeded in clearing a circle about the fainting girl, and was just looking for something with which to fan her, when two people—a man and a woman—entered the door of the cloak-room, and stopped short when they saw the unusual spectacle. "It is just as I thought—she is dying," said the woman, softly. Faith recognized the voice at once. It was the lady whom she had just left talking to Miss Fairbanks at the ribbon counter. "You see, Mr. Denton, my words have come true! You are killing these young women by overwork and bad air, yet you dare to resent any interference in the matter." Faith was kneeling by Miss Jennings now and had raised her head to her lap. There was a quiver of the girl's eyelids. When the wine came at last she was able to swallow it. "This is dreadful!" said Mr. Denton, in a tone of genuine distress. "Here, Mr. Gibson, do all you possibly can for that young woman, and for Heaven's sake, try to keep this out of the newspapers." "Can I help you, dear?" said the lady, going over to where Faith sat by her friend, "or am I merely exhausting the air that the poor child should be breathing? You were a brave girl to come to her rescue as you did. If any trouble results from it, be sure and let me know it." She dropped her card into Faith's lap, and left the place with Mr. Denton. The doctor was just entering and there was no spare room. She had seen at a glance that Faith could do all that was needed. A few minutes later Miss Jennings opened her eyes. When she saw Faith bending over her she smiled very happily. "You are better, dear, aren't you?" whispered Faith, as she tried to return the smile. Miss Jennings shook her head gently. "I am satisfied," was her low answer. "But I want you to be happy, Mary," cried Faith, who saw death in the poor girl's face. "Look up, dear; there is One who loves you. Can you not believe it?" "I trust it is so," said the dying girl, faintly, "I have not believed, but I may have been mistaken." "You were indeed, Mary, but you were not to blame! Poor child, yours has been a sad lot, but there is happiness coming." There were stifled sobs from many of the girls who were standing in frightened groups about the room. The hush upon each lip spoke only too plainly of death's presence. "Poor Dick!" sighed Miss Jennings. "If it were not for Dick—" Dick was the crippled brother who was her only charge. "I will take him to live with me, Mary," whispered Faith, nobly. "My mother will love him and so will I—but what is it, dear?" Miss Jennings was trying to say something more. Her voice was so low that only Faith could hear it. "Will He forgive indifference, rebellion, distrust?" "Though your sins are as scarlet, He shall wash them white, dear Mary. As we forgive our enemies, so He will forgive us." The dying girl raised her eyes. Strangely enough their gaze rested upon the face of Mr. Denton. He had come back to the scene only a moment before, and for perhaps the first time in his life, pangs of remorse were seizing him. "I—forgive—" murmured the poor girl, still gazing at Mr. Denton. Her eyes closed slowly as she spoke. With a fearful groan, Mr. Denton fled from the place. The physician had done what he could, but his efforts were useless. Another life had gone out at the very dawning of its day; crushed out by the injustice and the greed of fellow-beings. Faith choked back her sobs as well as she could, and looked on in amazement at what followed the tragedy. An undertaker was called and placed in charge of the body, and the utmost concern seemed to be felt about all the arrangements, especially by Mr. Gibson, who had been put in charge of the matter by the firm. Faith would not have understood such a sudden "change of heart" if she had not been enlightened by one of the other women. "They know it's bound to get into the papers," she whispered, "so they are making a big bluff, you know. They don't really care about Miss Jennings." Faith put on her hat without waiting to hear more; Such hypocrisy as this completely overcame her. Miss Fairbanks was not consulted regarding her movements now, for the young girl quite forgot the rules and regulations of the establishment. As quick as she could she started to go up-town in search of the humble rooms where she knew she would find the crippled boy whom she had taken under her protection. As she left the store a young man joined her. She gave a sharp glance at his face. It was Mr. Watkins. Involuntarily the young girl extended her hand, and in that sympathetic clasp both knew that their love for the dead girl was mutual, and that forever after between them would be the firmest friendship. Mr. Watkins insisted upon accompanying Faith on her errand of mercy, and as he seemed to need her tender consolation and sympathy, Faith was glad to allow him to share her mission. He had heard of his sweetheart's death only through the gossip of the store, so Faith told him of Mary's calm resignation, and her belief that she died happy in the faith of a true Christian. The crippled boy, Dick, was a sweet little fellow of six years, and in spite of the added expense, Mrs. Marvin was glad to have him with her. He would give her something to think of, she said, in the long days to come, when Faith would be away at business. She set about to comfort the little fellow at once. Faith was too disturbed to go back to the store that day, and as it was to be closed the next day on account of the funeral of young Mr. Forbes, she had time to think over the outlook for the future. "I am sure Mr. Denton is not a bad man, mother," she said, as they sat with Mr. Watkins in the little parlor. "His face showed the deepest agony. I am sure he has a heart. Oh, if only I could reach it, perhaps things would be different." "But you say that lady, the Government Inspector, was with him at the time. His distress may have been feigned," answered her mother, suspiciously. "I don't think so, mother, for there were tears in his eyes. I think he is merely neglectful. He leaves the consideration for employees entirely to his partners." "Many business men are that way," remarked her mother, after a minute. "They are so concerned about their financial matters that they ignore what is more sacred—their duty toward their fellow-beings. By the way, I have just read of two more failures, one a shoe store and the other a grocery store, and both because of the department store evil! How can small dealers, with only a few hundred dollars behind them, expect to compete with firms whose capitals reach the millions? They are only the poor little fishes in the sea, while the department stores are sharks, sharp-toothed monsters of destruction!" "I have heard of one department store in Philadelphia, I think, where the proprietor gave situations to a lot of men after he had bought them out or completely ruined their business. That is better than nothing," said Mr. Watkins thoughtfully. "It is the only recompense possible in such an unjust transaction." "They do not think it unjust; they call it simply business,'" said Faith bitterly. "The one who sells the most goods is considered the smartest. It is a case where might makes right—the survival of the fittest." "In other words," replied Mrs. Marvin, "a rich corporation justifies its methods on the grounds that it has a right to transact business on a scale corresponding to its pecuniary ability—there is no question of morality involved. Every man for himself, and the devil take the hindmost. Yet there are people who believe that there is no future punishment for these malefactors." "God will punish them according to His judgment, mother. It may be here and it may be hereafter. We have nothing to do with their wrongdoing. We must suffer and be brave—that is our duty and our mission." "And do you see no injustice in that?" cried Mr. Watkins sharply. "Was it right that poor Mary should be born to poverty and disease and wear her young life out in agony, while so many of the wicked are flourishing? Oh, I have tried not to question or even to think, but the promise of salvation grows daily more dull in my ears. I doubt the mercy of God and I cannot help it!" CHAPTER XII. A COMPLICATION OF TROUBLES. Faith could think of no words then to comfort Mr. Watkins. His grief was too poignant. She changed the subject. When he left the house to go home, she put on her hat. There was something she wished to say to him that she could not say before her mother. There was an errand at the grocery that gave her an excuse, and as the hour was not late, Faith welcomed the opportunity. As soon as they were in the street she told him her experience with the store detective and asked his advice in case she should be annoyed in the future. Before the words were fairly out of her mouth she wished she had not spoken. There was confusion and shame upon her companion's face, and his lips trembled strangely when he tried to answer her. For a moment Faith could hardly believe her senses. She stared at him stupidly, while her limbs trembled beneath her. Instantly a suspicion darted through her brain. She remembered that he, too, had been in the superintendent's office that evening, and that it was possible, even probable, that he knew something about the money. "Oh, Miss Marvin, this is dreadful!" he managed to say at last. "I did not dream that they would settle upon you! I thought, that is, I hoped, that they had dropped the matter!" "Then you knew of it," said Faith, her voice sounding faint and far away. "I knew it, yes," said Mr. Watkins. "In fact, I was sent by Mr. Forbes to stop you, but you had gotten out of the building." "Is it possible?" Faith was coming back to her senses now. "Tell me all you know of the matter, Mr. Watkins," she said, sternly, "and tell me the exact truth. Don't attempt to hide anything!" Mr. Watkins controlled himself and told her the whole story—how the superintendent had suspected her of stealing the money and sent to have her brought back at once and had been disappointed. "An hour later," he continued, "he got a telegram from his wife. His son was dying and he had to go home. Since then there had nothing been done about the robbery." Faith drew a long breath after the young man finished. "So appearances are against me," she said, with a sigh. "I am at the mercy of a rascal like that detective, Hardy." Mr. Watkins said nothing, but he was as pale as death. When he tried to comfort her the words nearly choked him. Faith saw it and pitied him even while she wondered. A few moments later she bade him a cordial "good-night." If there was any suspicion in her heart it did not show in her manner. She was walking slowly home from the grocery, plunged in the most serious thought, when a well-dressed man of middle age appeared suddenly before her. "I beg pardon, miss," he said, raising his hat, "but I am a stranger in this neighborhood and am looking for a certain number. If you live about here perhaps you will kindly direct me." "I will, with pleasure, sir. What number do you wish?" asked Faith. As she spoke she paused directly in the glare of a gas lamp. As the light fell on her face the stranger stopped abruptly. "By Jove! What luck!" he cried, gayly. "The very angel I was thinking of!" "What do you mean, sir!" cried Faith, who was now thoroughly frightened. "If you wish me to direct you, state the number that you seek at once! I am not in the habit of being addressed by strangers!" "My dear child, don't get angry. I shall not harm you," said the man, politely, "but you surprised me out of myself. I did not dream of meeting you." As Faith still stood staring at him he continued, speaking hurriedly, and his manner became so chivalrous that the young girl soon accused herself mentally of rudeness. "You see, it is this way, miss. I was thinking of the sweetest little girl in the whole big world, and when I saw your face you were so much like her that to save my soul I could not help that exclamation. You will pardon me, I am sure, for I meant no harm whatever! I am old enough to be your father, so you see you have no reason to fear me." "I spoke hastily," said Faith, slowly. "I had no wish to be rude, but you must admit that I had cause to feel a little startled." "You did, indeed, and I apologize humbly, but am I not right in thinking that I have seen you somewhere before? Are you not employed in the department store of Denton, Day & Co.?" Faith looked at him in surprise. "I have worked there two days," she began, a little hastily. "And I have seen you twice," replied the stranger, promptly. "Your face is a sweet one. I could not forget it." The words were spoken so quietly that Faith could not resent them. She was moving slowly toward her home now, feeling a little bit nervous. "That is a dreadful life for a girl," went on the man, very quietly. "It is agony for the poor things, both of mind and body!" "You are right, sir," cried Faith, who had thought instantly of Miss Jennings. "The shop girls' life is one continuous drudgery. She is the slave of circumstances and the victim of conditions." "I am surprised that so many enter the life. There are surely other vocations. They choose the hardest one possible." "But do they choose?" asked Faith, who had become interested in spite, of herself. "Are they not driven this way or that, according to their opportunities? In my case there was no choice. I had tried everything else. Hard as it is, I am thankful for my present employment." The man looked at her sharply. There was genuine sympathy in his face. Almost involuntarily he broke out in violent sentences. "You girls are to blame in great measure for all this, and where the fault is not yours it lies with your parents! Instead of cultivating your graces you bedraggle them with labor! Instead of marketing your smiles you trade in blood and sinew! Every day in that store means a year off of your life; every anxious moment means an inroad into your rightful happiness! Why will you not see the folly of your ways? Why can you not understand that it is a false morality which is killing you? Why, if I were a girl"—his voice had dropped to the most persuasive cadence—"I should value my beauty too highly to hide it behind a counter, and my subsistence should be the boundless reward of affection, rather than the niggardly recompense for wasted tissues! Of course, I shock you, because you have done no thinking for yourself. A lot of narrow souled ancestors have done thinking for you. They have brought you here to let you shift for yourself, but woe to you if you offend one of their petty notions of honor. See, child! I have money, I have constant ease. Could you blame me for offering to share it with youth and beauty?" As he breathed these words he gazed at Faith eagerly. The soul in the man had vanished. He was dangerously in earnest. The thrill that flowed through Faith's veins as he spoke was not of fear, for, child that she was, she understood his meaning, and his words stirred the deepest channels of her soul—she was more grieved than shocked at the man's distorted reasoning. "You are all wrong," she said, sadly. "You cannot understand! There are some things more precious than gold to us, more precious even than comfort or affection. Not for the world would I lose this 'something' which I possess! It is the haven of my soul at the hour of every trial. It is the one solace of my life in the desperate condition that I have reached. You, a man of years, should not argue so wrongfully. It is wicked to place temptations before the young and wretched." She had regained her composure as she finished speaking, and a tinge of righteous indignation made her voice vibrate strangely. "Is it wrong to do good?" asked the man, a trifle sullenly. "Surely comfort, ease, health are the best a man can offer. Nature did not create you girls for a life of toil. You were made for love, for homage and adoration. Yet when one offers you these you turn to your nameless 'something' and, like the martyrs of old, suffer torture and death rather than accept what is your due. It is incomprehensible, truly!" "Hush! Your words are an insult! I will not hear them. It is true that my knowledge of the world is limited, but this much I know: the God of righteousness has placed me here for a purpose, and that purpose is not to play the coward in time of trouble or to prove traitor to the highest, holiest instincts which permeate my being! Working girl I am and may always be, but my lot is a queen's beside what you suggest! God pity the poor women who have not the wisdom to see it." She was standing before him now like a beautiful statue, one arm uplifted to emphasize her utterances. "My God! You are superb! Magnificent!" muttered the man involuntarily. "I would give my life to be worthy of such a woman!" Faith's arm dropped suddenly, and she drew away with a gasp. There was a look in the man's face that frightened her for a moment. "You have taught me a lesson," he said, almost hoarsely. "I thank you, child, and I bid you good-evening." "But the number," cried Faith, as he was turning away. "You wished me to direct you to a certain number." "Never mind it now. I can find it," was the answer. He was walking swiftly away in the darkness of the street, when a figure approached him from the opposite direction. The two met directly under the gas lamp where Faith had been standing a moment before, and as they met Faith heard a sharp exclamation. Her sharp eyes recognized the newcomer at once. It was no other than Bob Hardy, the store detective. CHAPTER XIII. A HEAVENLY INSPECTOR. When Faith Marvin reached home after her unpleasant interview with the well-dressed stranger, she was in a state of nervousness that nearly bordered upon hysterics. The fact that Bob Hardy was a witness to what she had supposed was a mere accidental meeting gave her an instinctive clue to the identity of the man, and her cheeks flushed with shame as she connected him in her thoughts with that insulting proposition of the detective. She had tried to compose herself, as usual, before going into her mother's presence, and succeeded so well that when they retired Mrs. Marvin had no suspicion of the interview. Neither did Faith acquaint her with the extraordinary suspicions against Mr. Watkins, which she now felt ashamed to think she had harbored for a second. She was much troubled in mind about the latter, for while she felt in her heart that Mr. Watkins was innocent she could not help thinking that he, too, was shielding a thief. She wondered if it was because he felt the same on the subject as had his sweetheart, Miss Jennings. She said her prayers quietly and felt more tranquil after. There was a balm in religion for her trusting heart, which she begged with all her soul to share with others. It was during this hour that she thought of Mr. Forbes, whom she knew was to bury his only son on the morrow. Suddenly the thought flitted through her head that perhaps employees were somewhat to blame for not expressing more sympathy for their employers in all serious matters. "Perhaps they think us as heartless as we think them," she whispered to herself; then the impulse came over her to write Mr. Forbes a letter. She rose quietly, so as not to wake her mother, and penned him the note. It came straight from her heart. She told him she was sorry for his sorrow. Early the next morning she went out and mailed it. Little Dick went with her, hobbling along on clumsy crutches. The child had fallen in love with her at once, and, although he often cried for his sister, Faith could always cheer him and change his tears to laughter. Late in the afternoon she rode down to the undertaker's. She had not become reconciled yet to parting with Miss Jennings. As she reached the door two women were just leaving; they were Miss Fairbanks, the buyer, and Maggie Brady. Faith was startled for a minute, for she could not understand their interest. Neither one of them had ever shown the faintest liking for the dead girl, but now she noticed with surprise that they had both been crying. "Truly, every cloud has a silver lining," she murmured to herself, "and who knows but what this is the first glimpse of the lining! Oh, I do hope it will soon show itself to poor Mr. Watkins." The two women had passed her with a mere nod of the head. She opened the door of the establishment and confronted Mr. Watkins. "Oh, what is it?" she cried, involuntarily, as she saw his face. "Don't, dear Mr. Watkins; don't take it so badly." Mr. Watkins put his hand on her arm as she spoke. He was so faint and weak that he seemed obliged to lean on something. "I—I have explained that matter about the money," he whispered, hoarsely. "Hardy will not annoy you any longer. The thief has been discovered." He looked so wretched that the tears sprang to Faith's eyes. "I am glad it is explained," she answered, hastily, "but you are ill, Mr. Watkins. You should go home this minute." "Home—home!" repeated Mr. Watkins in a vacant manner. Then with a fearful groan of agony he collapsed completely. As he fell to the floor several of the undertaker's clerks rushed forward and lifted him up. "Another victim of conditions, of greed and avarice," said a voice in Faith's ear. She turned quickly and recognized Miss Alma Dean, the woman inspector, whose card she had in her pocket. Without waiting for Faith to answer, the lady went on speaking. The men were laying Mr. Watkins on a sofa not twenty feet away from the body of his dead sweetheart. "That poor fellow was a picture of health two years ago, before he entered the employ of Denton, Day & Co. I know his mother well; she is a lovely woman, and he has a younger brother who is also in that store, and liable to follow in this poor chap's footsteps. I just came in to look at that poor girl. I want to stamp her face indelibly upon my memory. Thank fortune I am in a position to remedy some of the evils in this world. As Government Inspector I can do considerable, but I must learn the length and breadth of the evil before I am fit to attack it." Faith listened breathlessly to every word. The proprietor of the place was also listening, and as she finished, he nodded his head as though he quite agreed with her. Mr. Watkins was rapidly reviving under the kind care bestowed upon him, but before he was fairly alive to his surroundings Miss Dean took Faith's hand and led her out on to the sidewalk. "They will take him home—they are very kind people," said the lady, sadly, "but now, dear, you and I are confronted with a problem. How are we to prevent the repetition of this horror?" As Miss Dean asked the question she did not really seem to expect an answer from Faith; it was more like a spoken expression of thoughts that were vexing her, made to one whom she knew was thoroughly sympathetic. "This is the saddest demonstration of injustice that I have ever witnessed," she went on, slowly, "yet I know it is mild in comparison with others. It lacks the hideousness of exposure, so far as you see. We only know that one more crime has been added to the list, yet the details of that crime have been carefully spared us." Faith knew that she referred to poor Mary's death, but she could find no words with which to manifest the depth of her sorrow. "The fear of the law is our only hope, I guess," went on Miss Dean. "They must be forced to comply with certain regulations. Many of the stores are doing so, under no compulsion whatever, but these people seem deaf to everything but the jingle of their dollars." "But the law cannot change their hearts," muttered Faith, at last, "so the cure that it effects must of necessity be superficial. Oh, if only the fear of the Lord could be instilled into their system. If they could only be made to feel that to Him they are accountable!" She spoke with enthusiasm, her eyes and cheeks brightening. "You are a good ally," said Miss Dean, watching her, "but, my dear, the day of miracles is ended." "But with God all things are possible! It would be no miracle for Him! I did not mean to infer that I or any human being could reach their hearts, still our words and our prayers, are they not noble weapons?" "I am not so sure," said the inspector, gravely. "I think, dear, I am better fitted to experiment on a purely worldly basis. For instance, I have already reported the condition of that cloak-room, the drainage, ventilation and unsuitable location. Then I have mentioned the inadequate fire appliances in the building as well as the long hours you girls are obliged to stand and the short time which you are allowed for luncheon. I think that several of these matters will be changed at once, but there are others which will take longer or which may never be accomplished." "It will make them very angry, will it not, when they hear of your report? And the alterations will be expensive, especially when it comes to altering the cloak-room." "Oh, well, we inspectors cannot worry over any personal feelings, my dear. Our duty is to make right all wrong conditions. We are to look after the health of people, not their money. The only question is how to do this in the quickest possible manner." Faith glanced at her sharply. She was a handsome woman. There was a resolution in her face that commanded instant admiration. "I am glad to have seen you to-day," Miss Dean said as they reached the corner. "I find my sympathies are more and more enlisted through acquaintance with you girls. Why, I feel that I would like your employers to spend millions in making your labors a little lighter." She smiled pleasantly as she spoke and offered Faith her hand. "Good-by, dear," she said brightly, "there's a good time coming." Faith watched her as she boarded a car—she was so ambitious, so full of vigor and so nobly intentioned. "If she were only an inspector sent from God, now," she whispered, then a tremor shot over her frame at such a wonderful suggestion. "Why should I not be an inspector sent from God," she murmured, "to seek out the dark places and let in the light? If it is only a candle flame it will help a little." She turned abstractedly, almost dazed by her thoughts. The next instant she was brought almost rudely to her senses. Some one had called her by name. She turned and faced young Denton. CHAPTER XIV. MR. FORBES TALKS ON RELIGION. About two hours before the meeting of Faith and young Denton, Duncan Forbes returned from burying his son, and sat down disconsolately in the library of his handsome residence. Although only the junior partner in the firm of Denton, Day & Co., still his interest, together with his salary as superintendent of the establishment, brought him in every year a princely income. Then there were other investments of a varied nature, all of which had proven more than ordinarily successful, yet now in his hour of sorrow he could feel no atom of thankfulness, and every hour of his busy life seemed to him to have been wasted. As he sat staring at the fire he could hardly restrain his feelings, for the words "God will punish you" were ringing in his ears even more clearly now than when he first heard them. He tried to go over the incidents of that morning when a poor applicant in his office had wrought such havoc with his conscience. He remembered the five hundred dollars of which he had been robbed, and he also recalled vaguely the conversation he had with a woman inspector in the store immediately after. Then came the message regarding his son's condition, then the death chamber, the grave, and now—desolation. The door opened softly and a servant entered. She bore a tray upon which were laid a number of letters. After she had gone Mr. Forbes rose and looked them over. He did so listlessly. He had no heart for business. The first three were business letters, referred to him by the firm with a brief note, stating their importance as an apology for the intrusion. The next two letters were letters of condolence from members of his church. The last was a cheap envelope, neatly sealed and addressed modestly. This last he turned over and over between his fingers. There was a vague thought in his brain to which he could give neither shape nor utterance. Could it be possible? He asked the question and then sneered in answer. The thing was incredible, that he, Duncan Forbes, tyrant and slave-driver, should be remembered by his victims, yet the envelope was redolent of sympathetic surprises. He tore it open finally and glanced at the words. For just a moment the flame of appreciation sprang up within him. The note was from Faith Marvin, the new packer whom he had employed. She was "sorry for him," she said, "in this hour of his affliction." He laid it down with a sigh that ended in a groan. His brow darkened as he looked at it. He was aroused and puzzled. The door opened again and his pastor entered. He came unannounced and in a shrinking manner. Mr. Forbes turned toward him indifferently and held out his hand. He realized that this call was obligatory. He had been paying for it yearly. As the two men sat down the minister coughed a little, then he folded his hands meekly—his host knew what was coming. "I trust that you have become reconciled to this separation, dear Brother Forbes," he began solemnly, "and that you can say in your heart 'The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away; blessed be the name of the Lord.'" Duncan Forbes did not answer for the space of a minute, during which time his pastor watched him furtively from under his eyebrows. "My son was my all," he muttered finally. "It is for his sake alone that I have lived and labored—that by the sweat of my brow I have accumulated my fortune." The minister sighed with unaffected sympathy. "Yet God in His mercy has taken him from you. He who seeth the end from the beginning knew what was best, dear brother, for your soul's salvation." "But of what use is my life now?" questioned Mr. Forbes sharply. "I am a broken reed with no ambition to lean upon. A man whose heart has been plucked by its roots from my body. Is there anything in our religion which can solace me, do you think? Is there a recompense for the sufferings of a heartbroken father?" "There is balm for every wound, Brother Forbes, if we seek it. Others have suffered your loss and been able to find it." Duncan Forbes sat back in his chair and stared straight before him. The words had brought to his mind unpleasant visions. In an instant he was back in his store again, where scores of pale-faced, hollow-eyed youths and maidens were moving about. They all had mothers and fathers or some one who loved them, yet, unlike his Jack, they were weighed down by poverty, the millstone of disease was about their necks, and he, Duncan Forbes, was relentlessly grinding the very spirit out of their frail bodies. He shuddered involuntarily and that brought him back to his senses. "Religion! what is it?" he asked unpleasantly. "Has it any practical value in the lives of mortals? I have been a church member for forty years, paying my dues in accordance with the terms of that institution and shirking none of its responsibilities. Now, at the hour of sorrow, I find myself facing my grief alone; there is no power in the church that can help me to bear it. What is religion, I say? Is it a mere mummery of speech? I have been religious all my life; now I find nothing in it!" "The fault is in you," said his caller, gravely. Both men had risen and stood facing each other. "You have been too occupied with other things, brother—too busy, you might say, with worldly matters to search for the spirit that pervades what you call 'mummery.' Surely in your love for Jack you appreciate something of the love of Christ for man; in your dealings with men and women you can realize His interest in humanity, and through your wealth you have the power to reap a harvest of good, yet how have you improved these opportunities?" Mr. Forbes looked surprised, as well he might. They were the first words of a personal application of belief that his ears had listened to since he could remember. "But religion has no part in worldly affairs," he said sullenly. "To be born for heaven is to be lost for earth; surely we should take each condition in the order that it comes—wealth, position first; prayer and praise hereafter; earth for the body and heaven for the soul; goods and chattels now, faith our stock in trade for the future. This is practical, is it not? This is good, sound reasoning. You are a minister of the Gospel, yet you can't deny it!" "I can and do!" cried the minister bravely. "A belief that does not shape the life of the believer is not religion! Faith that does not light the path of the present is not the inspiration of Heaven! The Spirit of Christ is an ever-present reagent, neutralizing every rancor of human strife and blending all grief into harmonious concord. Every human act should be weighed in the balance of a man's belief. If he sacrifice divine faith to worldly ambition, he is in need of the chastening rod, and God will surely punish him!" "You do not preach that from your pulpit, Dr. Villard," he said slowly, "and there is hardly a man in your congregation who does not need it." Dr. Villard's thin face turned to a sickly pallor. It was a just retribution. He accepted it meekly. "We ministers are but human," he began, softly. There was a rap on the door. It came as a welcome interruption. When Mr. Forbes opened the door he saw his assistant, Mr. Watkins. The young man's face was the color of a corpse, and his hollow eyes were red from weeping. "I must see you, if only for a minute, sir," he said hastily, then as he caught sight of the visitor a flush spread over his features. True to his nature, Duncan Forbes scowled heavily for a moment. He would have sent Mr. Watkins away if his guest had not prevented it. "As you would be done by, Brother Forbes," he whispered quickly. The next moment he was gone and Mr. Watkins had entered.