"Who is Mr. Watkins?" asked Faith, who had quite forgotten the young man.
"He's the superintendent's lackey, but they call him an assistant," said Miss Jennings, with a slight blush. "He's a remarkably fine young man who would be honest if he could, but, poor soul, he's like the rest of us—tied hand and foot! If he expresses an honest opinion, out he goes into the street, and that means that not only himself but his mother would starve."
"I remember him now," said Faith; "he was in the superintendent's office when I applied for my position. I liked his looks; he seemed refined and honest. I wish I could help him, but—Oh, Mary, what's the matter?"
Miss Jennings had suddenly put her handkerchief to her lips. When she took it down there were blood stains upon it.
"Nothing, dear," she said as soon as she could speak, "only the last end of a hemorrhage that I had this morning."
"But do you have to work to-day? Is it really necessary?" urged Faith.
Miss Jennings turned to her quickly and opened her pocket-book. There were seventeen cents and a small photograph in the purse. Faith had just time to recognize the picture as that of Mr. Watkins when Miss Jennings closed the book with a flush of annoyance.
"That's all I've got to last out the week, Faith," she said between her coughs, "and I have a crippled brother at home, a last legacy from my parents."
She hurried up the stairs, with Faith close behind her. In five minutes the work of the day had begun; goods were being taken deftly from the shelves and displayed upon the counters.
Miss Fairbanks was on hand and as cross as ever. She went around like a virago and scolded nearly every one in her department.