"What!" gasped Faith, in astonishment as the cash girl finished, "Miss Brady intoxicated! You surely don't mean it?" "Oh, don't I?" said the child, with a worldly leer. "I mean lots more than that, only I'm too nice to say it." She walked away to answer another call while Faith stared first at Miss Fairbanks and then at Miss Jones. Both had heard the words yet they were laughing at her amazement. "You are easily shocked," said Miss Fairbanks, with a shrug. "Why, any one with half an eye could see that Mag Brady loves whiskey." "That's another thing that Jim Denton taught her," said Miss Jones indifferently. "Why, I knew Mag Brady when she was as innocent as you are." "But can nothing be done to reclaim her?" asked Faith, eagerly. "You say you knew her when she was different, Miss Jones; have you ever tried to save her from ruin?" "I mind my own business," said Miss Jones, haughtily, "and I find that is all I can possibly do. Mag Brady must save herself if she wants to be saved, but, between you and me, I don't think she wants to." "But you--you are her friend," Faith cried, turning to Miss Fairbanks; "do promise me that you will plead with her; it might do wonders! Just think how you would feel if the poor girl was your sister!" Miss Fairbanks seemed earnest and sincere as she replied: "I will certainly advise her if she gives me the chance. Poor girl, I am sorry for her, but I doubt if I can save her." "Then we must all pray that God will do so," whispered Faith, very soberly. "It is a wrong that we will all be held responsible for; to see her going down to destruction and not try to save her!" Miss Jones wheeled around and went to a customer, but Miss Fairbanks paused and looked at Faith for a moment. "I would give the world to possess your faith," she said, hesitatingly; "but there's no use--no use--I'm too great a sinner." There was no chance to reply, for she walked away as she spoke. In a second she was talking to a customer in her usual business-like manner. As Faith turned to look over her stock she heard some one speak. There was a colored man at her counter holding a letter out toward her. "Dis yere lettah fo' you, missy," he said, with a wide grin. "Dar ain't no name on it, honey, but I know's yo' face. Yo' is num'er fo' eleben. Reckin ain't no 'stake 'bout it!" "I am Number 411, certainly," said Faith, politely, "but I can't imagine who would write me a letter; still, if you are sure it's for me, I suppose I must accept." "Oh, it's fo' you all right," said the negro, decidedly, "fo' de capting p'inted yo' out on de street las' ebenin'." Faith took the letter and opened it hastily. As she glanced rapidly over the writing she blushed as red as a poppy. "Got a mash note?" asked Miss Jones with a careless glance at the letter.