“Once in grace, always in grace. I’ve _been_ there, I know. Let us pray.” The victim waived his hand impatiently, and faintly exclaimed: “_You_ won’t do; somebody that’s better acquainted with God than _you_ are must do it.” “But, Baggs,” reasoned the barkeeper, “perhaps he’s been a preacher—you’d better not throw away a chance.” “Don’t care if he has,” whispered Baggs; “he don’t look like any of the prayin’ people mother used to know.” The would-be petitioner took his rebuff considerably to heart, and began, in a low and rapid voice, an argument with himself upon the duration of the state of grace. The Enders listened but indifferently, however; the dying man was more interesting to them than living questions, for he had no capacity for annoyance. The barkeeper scratched his head and pinched his brow, but, gaining no idea thereby, he asked: “Do _you_ know the right man, Baggs?” “Not here, I don’t,” gasped the sufferer; “not the right _man_.” The emphasis on the last word was not unheeded by the bystanders; they looked at each other with as much astonishment as Enders were capable of displaying, and thrust their hands deep into the pockets of their pantaloons, in token of their inability to handle the case. Baggs spoke again. “I wish mother was here!” he said. “_She’d_ know just what to say and how to say it.” “She’s too far away; leastways, I suppose she is,” said the barkeeper. “I know it,” whispered the wounded man; “an’ yet a woman——” Baggs looked inquiringly, appealingly about him, but seemed unable to finish his sentence. His glance finally rested upon Brownie, a man as characteristic as himself, but at times displaying rather more heart than was common among Enders. Brownie obeyed the summons, and stooped beside Baggs. The bystanders noticed that there followed some whispering, at times shame-faced, and then in the agony of earnestness on the part of Baggs, and replied to by Brownie with averted face and eyes gazing into nowhere. Finally Brownie arose with an un-Ender-like decision, and left the saloon. No one else said much, but there seemed to circulate an impression that Baggs was consuming more time than was customary at the End. Very different was the scene in Mrs. Wader’s parlor; instead of a dying man surrounded by uncouth beings, there stood a beautiful woman, radiant with health and animation; while about her stood a throng of well-dressed gentlemen, some of them handsome, all of them smart, and each one craving a smile, a word, or a look. Suddenly the pompous voice of General Wader arose: “Most astonishing thing I ever heard of,” said he. “An Ender has the impudence to ask to see Miss Fewne!” “An Ender?” exclaimed the lady, her pretty lips parting with surprise. “Yes, and he declares you could not have the heart to say no, if you knew his story.” “Is it possible, Miss Fewne,” asked one admirer, “that your cruelty can have driven any one to have become an Ender?”