“I thought so. Let me introduce you to my friend, Miss Flora Bond. She's from the country, and wants to get into some good establishment. She talked about a store, but I think a bindery is better.” “A great deal better,” was replied by Miss Peter. “I've tried them both, and wouldn't go back to a store again on any account. If I can serve your friend, I shall be most happy.” “Thank you!” returned Flora; “you are very kind.” “Not at all; I'm always glad when I can be of service to any one. You think you'd like to go into a bindery?” “Yes. I've come to the city to get employment, and haven't much choice.” “There's no place like the city,” remarked the other. “I'd die in the country--nothing going on. But you won't stagnate here. When did you arrive?” “To-day.” “Have you friends here?” “No. I brought a letter of introduction to a lady who resides in the city.” “What's her name?” “Mrs. Bray.” Miss Peter turned her head so that Flora could not see her face. It was plain from its expression that she knew Mrs. Bray. “Have you seen her yet?” she asked. “No. She was out when I called. I'm going back in a little while.” The girl sat down, and went on talking while the others were eating. Pinky had emptied her glass of sangaree before she was half through with her oysters, and kept urging Flora to drink. “Don't be afraid of it, dear,” she said, in a kind, persuasive way; “there's hardly a thimbleful of wine in the whole glass. It will soothe your nerves, and make you feel ever so much better.” There was something in the taste of the sangaree that Flora did not like--a flavor that was not of wine. But urged repeatedly by her companion, whose empty glass gave her encouragement and confidence, she sipped and drank until she had taken the whole of it. By this time she was beginning to have a sense of fullness and confusion in the head, and to feel oppressed and uncomfortable. Her appetite suddenly left her, and she laid down her knife and fork and leaned her head upon her hand. “What's the matter?” asked Pinky. “Nothing,” answered the girl; “only my head feels a little strangely. It will pass off in a moment.” “Riding in the cars, maybe,” said Pinky. “I always feel bad after being in the cars; it kind of stirs me up.” Flora sat very quietly at the table, still resting her head upon her hands. Pinky and the girl who had joined them exchanged looks of intelligence. The former had drawn her veil partly aside, yet concealing as much as possible the bruises on her face. “My! but you're battered!” exclaimed Miss Peter, in a whisper that was unheard by Flora. Pinky only answered by a grimace. Then she said to Flora, with well-affected concern, “I'm afraid you are ill, dear? How do you feel?” “I don't know,” answered the poor girl, in a voice that betrayed great anxiety, if not alarm. “It came over me all at once. I'm afraid that wine was too strong; I am not used to taking anything.”