“Oh, my poor child, what shall we do now?” Mrs. Fielding exclaimed piteously, when they had reached their poor lodging, which, fortunately, they had not given up, as she sank despondently into the low rocking-chair, which was the only luxurious article of furniture the room contained. Sadie Allen had come with them to the door, and, after a short, whispered conversation with Fair, said good night and went away. Then the mother and daughter had gone quietly upstairs, followed by curious glances from other occupants of the tenement house who happened to be astir, for it was known by every one in the house that the pretty little sewing girl in the fourth story was to be married that night. Shrinking timorously from the curious gaze that followed them, mother and daughter went upstairs and locked themselves into the little room to which they had bid a glad farewell that night, never expecting to lodge in it again, but which now seemed like a happy haven, a refuge from the sneers of the cold and heartless world. Then the mother’s disappointment and grief found vent in the cry: “Oh, my poor child, what shall we do now?” Fair was laying off the little white chip hat with the daisy wreath and white ribbon, and at the words she went over to her mother’s side, and, putting her arms around her neck, kissed her tenderly. Then she said bravely: “Do? Why, we must go on just the same as we have been doing. I will go back to-morrow to the factory and apply for the place resigned two days ago.” “Go back to work at the same place as that wicked Belva Platt? Oh, my dear, it will be so hard for you. And, besides, she will be laying some other wicked plot for you. Oh, I am afraid, afraid!” wailed the poor woman. “I will have to be on my guard,” Fair answered, with a hard light in her sweet brown eyes. She hated the wicked, unjust girl who had deceived her so cruelly, and she knew that it would be hard to work with her in the same room again. “But,” she went on, aloud, “there is no other way, unless I could get work somewhere else, and the chances are against me for that. I shall be glad if I can get back to the old place.” “But the man? He will persecute you, dog your footsteps, perhaps,” said Mrs. Fielding, in a weak voice. She looked very pale and ill as she lay back in the chair, her eyes half closed, her lips blue and drawn, some wisps of prematurely gray hair straggling over her marble-white brow. Fair put them back with loving fingers. “You are very tired, aren’t you, dear?” she queried anxiously. “You worked too hard on your new dress to-day. Let me help you off with it, and put you to bed.” “Water, please,” Mrs. Fielding gasped faintly. She had turned livid about her lips, and before her daughter could obey the request her head fell back and she fainted.