“You really wish it?”

“Yes.”

“The floorwalkers and others above them have power that gives them the chance to be horribly unjust and tyrannical if they like.  There are lots of fine ones.  But there are cruel and bad ones, too.  And then—­I can’t tell you what life is like for the under dog!  And cheating goes on that we all see and have to share in—­sales of worthless things advertised to attract women.  We get a premium for working off ’dead stock.’  Each department must be made to pay, separately and on its own account, you see, whatever happens!  And that’s why each one is its own sweatshop—–­”

“I swear to you this isn’t my father’s fault,” involuntarily Peter broke in.  “He’s not young any more, you see, and he worked so hard in his early years that he’s not strong enough to keep at it now.  Not since I can remember has he been able to take a personal interest in the store, except from a distance.  He leaves it to others, men he believes that he can trust.  Not coming here himself, he—–­”

“Why, he comes nearly every day!” Win cried out, then stopped suddenly at sight of Peter’s face.

“I—­am sure you’re mistaken about that one thing, Miss Child,” he said.  “You must have been misinformed.  They must have told you some one else was he—–­”

The girl was silent, but Peter’s eyes held hers, and the look she gave him told that she was not convinced.  “You don’t believe me?” he asked.

“I believe you don’t know.  He does come.  It’s always been toward the closing hour when I’ve seen him.  The first time he was pointed out to me was by a floorwalker on Christmas Eve.  I was in the toy department then.  He was with Mr. Croft.  How strange you didn’t know!”

“If it was father—­perhaps I can guess why he didn’t want us to find out.  But even now I—­well, I shall go home and ask him if he realizes what is happening here.  Somehow I shall help your friends, Miss Child.”

“I haven’t told you about them yet,” Win said.  “It was really one friend who was in my mind.  There may be ever so many others just as sad as she.  But I love her.  I can’t bear to have her die just because she’s poor and unimportant—­except to God.  Dr. Marlow thinks she’s curable.  Only—­the things she needs she can’t afford to get, and I haven’t any money left to buy them for her; just my salary, and no more.  There’s one thing I can do, though!  I’ll learn to be a wolf, like some of the others, and snatch commissions.”

“Don’t do that!” Peter smiled at her sadly.  “I shouldn’t like to think of you turning into a wolf.  Your friend is sick—–­”

“She was told by the doctor yesterday that it was a case of consumption.  I had a letter from her this morning—­bidding me good-bye.  You see, she was discharged on the spot, with only a week’s wages.”

“Beastly!” exclaimed Peter.  “There ought to be some kind of a convalescent home in connection with this store—­or two, rather, one for contagious sort of things and the other not.  I—–­”