“There’s a milliner in this block who is selling those same ribbons for fifty cents a yard,” she said, “and of course, Denton, Day & Co. are not going to stand that; they are going to undercut her in everything until they break up her business.  You see, if we sell them for thirty-nine cents, she’ll have to come down, which will mean that she’ll lose a whole lot of money.”

“But won’t Denton, Day & Co. be losing money, too?” asked Faith.  She was a little too green to quite see the logic of this action.

“Not a cent,” was the somewhat surprising answer.  “You see, they buy in such large quantities that they get it cheaper than she does; but even if they didn’t, they could still make it up on some other goods, while she, poor soul, has no way of squaring her losses.”

Faith’s eyes opened wide as she listened to this explanation.

“That is exactly what they did with my father,” she said slowly.  “They undercut his prices so that he could not sell his books, then when his bills came due he could not pay them.  Oh, the thing is perfectly horrible, Miss Jones!  That poor, poor milliner!  Oh, how I pity her!”

Miss Jones had listened with considerable surprise.  It was the first she had heard of Faith’s personal grievance against the company.

Things moved along quietly after that, and Faith was kept very busy, but through the whole afternoon she was thinking of that ribbon.  Every time a roll of it was sold a weight seemed added to her burdens.  When she was obliged to sell it herself she felt that she was personally perpetrating a wrong on the milliner.

It was a terrible day, taken altogether, for so much misery and anxiety were crowded into it that she felt ten years older when the gong sounded for closing.

“Can you tell me what hospital Mr. Watkins was taken to, dear?” she asked of one of the little cash girls whom she had heard talking in the morning.

“Don’t know,” said the child.  “I didn’t hear.  But he’s pretty near dead, I guess, and his brother is a thief.  He—­”

“Hush, child!” cried Faith, quickly.  “Don’t talk about that, please!  It can’t do any good, and—­and perhaps some one has been mistaken!  It’s better to say nothing! until one knows for sure.  Poor Mr. Watkins!  He is indeed in sore trouble!”

“Mr. Watkins is resting very comfortably, Miss Marvin,” said a voice just behind her.  She turned around quickly and confronted young Denton.

“Oh, have you seen him?” asked Faith, in genuine delight.

“I just dropped in at the office; they wouldn’t let me see him,” was the answer; “but I learned that there was a chance for him—­he was what they call ‘comfortable.’”

“I am glad to hear that,” said Faith, moving slowly away.  They had been standing at the head of the stairs which led down to the cloak-room, and she expected every minute that Maggie Brady would see them.

“Don’t go just yet, Miss Marvin,” urged Mr. Denton, hastily.  “I’ve just arranged about that funeral; it is to be to-morrow evening.”