“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.

“Not exactly,” stammered Faith, “but it is almost as unpleasant.  It is from a man whom Bob Hardy spoke to me about—­a fellow who thinks because I am poor that he can buy my soul with his superfluous money!”

CHAPTER XXVII.

The poisoned candy.

But Faith had only read a part of the letter when she made her statement, for, on a closer perusal, she found she was mistaken.  If the writer had ever dreamed of tempting her with the lure of proffered luxury he admitted his change of opinion in terms of honest candor.

“Dear Child,” the letter read, “since our meeting the other evening I have been thinking constantly how I best could win your esteem and affection.  That I should desire the friendship of a pure, young girl would sound strange to the ears of many worldly people, but to you, who are as distant from worldliness as are the angels in heaven, the suggestion can bring only bewildering sensations.  To say that I am ashamed does not half express my feelings.  To say that I wish to make immediate amends does not convey to you the half of my eagerness in that direction.