"I lost it, sir," he said, simply. "It was in my coat pocket. You see, I divided the wad, sir, so it wouldn't look so bulky!" "And did your mother scold you?" asked Mr. Denton, still smiling. The boy's glance fell to the floor and he shifted his feet uneasily. "No, sir, she didn't scold--that is, not exactly," he said, sniffing. "She just talked to me, sir, and then she cried something awful!" Mr. Denton turned his head away for about a minute. There was something in the boy's story that affected him strangely. The poor woman had wept because her boy had stolen some money, yet rich men smiled complacently over what they called "good bargains," but which in reality were little more than thieving. "How is your brother?" he asked, when he could trust himself to speak. The boy's lips trembled and he began crying before he answered. "He's pretty bad, sir; in the hospital," he whispered, brokenly. "They think he'll die! You see, his sweetheart, Miss Jennings, died the very day after I stole the money, and the two things, with his hard work, knocked poor Fred out completely." "Was Miss Jennings his sweetheart?" asked Mr. Denton in astonishment. This was a phase of that horror that he had not even dreamed of. "Oh, yes, they were sweethearts," said the boy, with a hysterical giggle. "They was awfully in love, but they couldn't afford to get married." Mr. Denton rose from his desk and paced the office floor. The misery in the situation was even blacker than he had realized. "See here, boy!" he said suddenly. "Give me your mother's address, and here's a ten-dollar bill for her. Now, go home and take care of her." The boy's face flushed crimson as he refused the money. "I wouldn't dare to take it," he muttered sheepishly. "She'd think I stole it." "Then I'll send it by mail," said Mr. Denton quickly, "and I'll tell her at the same time that we don't mind about the three hundred. We can forgive a boy who only stole to help a sick mother." "Oh, sir!" cried the boy. But he could get no farther. The next second he was shaking with a storm of sobs. The agony of his repentance had reached its limit. Before he left the building the letter had been posted to his mother through the pneumatic mailing tube that opened in Mr. Denton's office. Mr. Denton's next duty was to see his buyers. He was still smarting with indignation over that "sweatshop" horror. In less than an hour he had them all assembled in the receiving-room, which was piled from end to end with the products of underpaid labor. His speech to them was short but decidedly to the point. They were to submit the names of the persons or firms whom they bought of, and receive his express commands concerning all further orders.