"I never had much opinion of 'em," she admitted, "nor of church people,
either," she added, with emphasis.

"There's Ferguson, who has the department store,--he's 'way up' in church
circles. I saw him a couple of months ago, one Sunday morning, driving
to that church on Burton Street, where all the rich folks go. I forget
the name--"

"St. John's," he supplied. He had got beyond surprise.

"St. John's--that's it. They tell me he gives a lot of money to it
--money that he steals from the girls he hires. Oh, yes, he'll get to
heaven--I don't think."

"How do you mean that he steals money from the girls?"

"Say, you are innocent--ain't you! Did you ever go down to that store?
Do you know what a floorwalker is? Did you ever see the cheap guys
hanging around, and the young swells waiting to get a chance at the girls
behind the counters? Why do you suppose so many of 'em take to the easy
life? I'll put you next--because Ferguson don't pay 'em enough to live
on. That's why. He makes 'em sign a paper, when he hires 'em, that they
live at home, that they've got some place to eat and sleep, and they sign
it all right. That's to square up Ferguson's conscience. But say, if
you think a girl can support herself in this city and dress on what he
pays, you've got another guess comin'."

There rose up before him, unsummoned, the image of Nan Ferguson, in all
her freshness and innocence, as she had stood beside him on the porch in