CHAPTER TWO

"There, there, dear," he cried, rising and coming hurriedly around to where she sat. Whereupon she became worse. He raised her to a standing posture, and took her affectionately in his arms, but the weeping went on unchecked. He held her and stroked her hair with his hand, but said nothing. He could not, for he was too overcome himself. By and by, he knew it would pass, and then they would speak of her in the terms they had known her. She was a good girl.

"Oh, Wilson, I will never get over it—never, never, never!" Constance moaned and gripped him convulsively. "Just think of it, too, and when we were beginning to realize how much she was to both of us. And just think how she acted about the Y.M.C.A.! Went to the bank and drew all the money she had saved this summer, walking by day in the sun to sell the book, and gave it, every dollar of it, to the cause of our people!" She cried harder now than ever. He drew her closer, and as he did so, one tear dropped from his eye upon her hair. She never felt it, and he would not have had her know for anything. He was a strong man, and had ever kept from tears.

"If we could only do something, only help a little," he said now, in a constrained voice. "I would give the rest of my life to the cause of that girl," he said, with words that spelled of fire. "Whatever this lurking evil is that has driven her from the protection of those who love her, it was in that church last Sunday!" He paused now, and while he stood silent, his sister released herself, looking at him for a moment sympathetically, and then sank again into the chair.

Their breakfast had been neglected, forgotten, and was growing cold. "Come, Wilson," she called softly, and pointed to his plate. He heard her and obeyed. They ate in absolute silence, automatically putting from their minds the emotion that had possessed them.

And even as he ate the food, with the strength it required to force it down, his mind played about the incident connected with her strange leaving. He tried vainly to recall who was at the church that he did not know. And it occurred to him that there were many. Yes. There were many; then he remembered suddenly how cheered he had been, when he saw his little church filled to its capacity. He recalled with a pang, that, as he stood at the rostrum, Mildred had passed, and, upon seeing him, had glanced at the congregation that had gathered, and then back at him and smiled. He continued his meal, but he knew he could never forget that smile.

Mildred Latham had wanted to help him. And when she saw his small church filled with people that day, some there purposely, while others were merely curious, she had, in that smile, shown how glad she was. It was that unselfishness about her, which was evident in many little ways, and which had finally won him.

And she had played and sung that day with all the strength of her body and soul. She had struggled in every way she knew how, to help him in his great effort. She had gone to the bank and drawn all she had saved in the months he had known her, as further evidence of her regard for this human welfare. She had acted, in doing so, at the most opportune time. With such a sum from an unknown girl, others, during the week, had surprised even themselves by subscribing sums that made the success of his work seemed assured. And cash was given where it might not have been otherwise. He knew his people a little. And when someone started the ball rolling, by means of patience, fortitude, hard work and application to the task, others can be found who will keep it going.

And why had Mildred Latham done this? Certainly she had not done so because she was in love with him. She had never shown any affection for him in that way. She had been interested in him, because she felt that he was sincere in his effort to help his fellow men. And she had given the sum to the proposed Y.M.C.A., because she was interested in humanity, and that was her mite to prove it....

And on the heels of this, she had—almost in the same moment, been driven from the place she had appreciated as home.... Who was this beast, for positively he was a beast.... When he got to a man in the case, he could never go further. For, think as he might, he could not, in some way, connect her with a man. A man it might be; but he felt positive she had no relation with anyone. And yet, what was it? Just something, and after that, all was blank.

They had finished their meal now. And he rose and strolled out upon the porch. He drew a cigar and, lighting it, started to smoke. It was a beautiful morning, and one to make even the sorrowful happy. But Wilson Jacobs was not happy. He gave up to the delight of the moment, and for a time, he forgot the harrowing sorrows.

The trees that lined the street were heavy with foliage, and gave forth the sound of many song birds; while a soft wind made the leaves rustle ever so little.

Presently, a man came down the street. On he came until he was even with the house, and then, for a brief spell, he paused at the gate. Until then, he had apparently not observed the man sitting on the porch. He glanced up and saw him. Then, with something akin to an air of guilt, the stranger passed on, and, as he did so, Wilson gave a start. His thoughts flew back over the past, with electric rapidity. Where had he seen that man before? "Where, where, where?" His thoughts were fairly alive. His lips grasped the cigar so tightly, that the lighted end fell to the floor, for he had bitten it in two, in his excitement. He kicked it from him with impatience, while he ransacked his brains in deep thought. "Where, where, where?" he cried, now almost aloud. And, strange as it seemed, in some way he connected this man with the disappearance of Mildred Latham. He raised his hands to his head to steady the thumping there, which by now had reached a state of violence. Just then the sexton rang the bell of his church next door. The same broke forth upon the clear morning air in stentorian tones, and floated beyond, and then Wilson Jacobs sat up quickly, bolt upright.

"I have it! I have it!" he cried in a subdued voice, while his very frame trembled. "It was at the meeting. That man came in late, I recall it all now. He came in late and I saw him. He, I recall now, appeared to have no interest in the service; but his eyes sought something, and then I caught him looking at Mildred with a cunning expression!" Why had he not thought of this before? It was all clear to him now, as he arose.

And then it occurred to him to follow. He tore into the house, and seizing his hat, hurried out and through the yard, came into the street and looked in the direction which he had seen the other take. No one was in sight. He hesitated a moment, and then hurried forward in that direction. He presently came abreast of a house where people sat upon the porch. He halted a moment as they called out his name pleasantly, bidding him good morning. He calmed himself, and after returning the greeting, inquired quite casually whether a man had passed that way recently, and he gave a description of him.

"No; but such a man as you describe came down as far as the corner back there," one of them explained, "and turned in that direction," and he pointed west.

"Thank you," he nodded calmly, and then retreated until he came to the place the other had turned. He stood for a moment, apparently lost in thought, while the people on the porch stared at him carelessly. A moment later, he passed in the direction the other had taken.

But, while he had been advised that the other had gone in that direction, no one was in sight, he now saw with sinking heart. He walked for two blocks, making inquiries as he went, but no one had seen such a man. He was downcast for a time. Presently, he returned to his home in a disappointed mood. As he came by the church, the doors were open, and his few members were filing scatteringly in. He hurried into his clothes, and a few minutes later, stood before his congregation reading the text.

CHAPTER THREE

She nodded, and felt now like crying. She understood facial expressions, and they had not seen. She was so relieved—for the present, and did not think then of the future. She had that to worry over later, and for this moment at least, she was relieved. These good people hadn't suspected the cause of her swoon. She sat up now, smiled with thanks upon those about her, and wiped the cold perspiration from her forehead. Someone held her hat, which they now handed to her. She placed it upon her head, covering the mass of hair that many were looking at a moment before, with natural admiration. Thanking them again in a kind and embarrassed manner, she turned and left them, while they followed to the door, and went their many ways.

When she got back to her room, she experienced a spell of nervousness when she entered. She saw the black woman's face for a moment, and was again relieved. The other had not been there, so she nodded coldly, and entered her room. She closed the door, and, removing her apparel, got into a kimono and threw herself upon the bed.

She had no thoughts for a time, but surrendered herself to idleness for perhaps a half hour, and then her mind began to react. It took the form of reminiscence. Sidney Wyeth came back into her memory, and for a long time she lay thinking entirely of him.

It was he—and he never knew what had started her on this strange journey. She now recalled—or tried to recall why. And then after a time she knew. Yes. She loved Sidney Wyeth, and it was that which had made the difference. But what kind of love was this that had no hope? And yet did she not hope?

As she lay with the hot air floating in upon her, she gazed out into the street, where a dozen or so little black boys played. She thought, with her mind idly drifting, and she saw these boys as men, in her idle fancy. They gathered presently in a circle, and when she watched them in her half-conscious, half-waking manner for a few minutes, she saw they were shooting craps. Think of it! These boys, ranging in years from eight to twelve. And they were already engaged in that demoralizing pastime. She trembled with sorrow as she watched the game proceed. Soon she saw that an argument of some kind had come up. They became very demonstrative, and while this was going on, suddenly, from a remote direction, a blue-coated policeman appeared upon the scene. There was a scramble and they flew in many directions. All escaped, with the exception of one. He was a cripple, and as he tried to hobble away, the burly cop swooped down upon him. He grasped him, without regard for his infirmity, and disappeared up the street, dragging the cripple with him.

And that was a common occurrence in this city. Hundreds of young men—boys—were started on a career of crime by premeditated arrests. They were often placed in jail when they were so young, that it was a tragedy. When they came out—for the courts could not bring themselves to sentence below a certain age—they were then pointed at as having "been in jail." And since they had the name, they often thereafter diligently sought the game.

As the policeman passed up the street with the pitiful cripple, she rushed to the window to look after him. A little boy stuck his head through a broken fence, and she heard him say, as they went by: "Uh! 'es got 'im a nigga!"

Mildred stretched herself upon the bed again; but her thoughts were now of something else. The Y.M.C.A. and Wilson Jacobs. At this same hour last Sunday, she had been with him in his effort—his great effort. And the need of such an effort had just been demonstrated a few minutes before, almost beneath her very eyes.

There was no place to go; no place, as a rule, where young men would go, and this helped to make it so bad. Young men will play pool, some of them, and they will seek some kind of diversion, other than the church. Their natures call for these things, and she knew it. Since freedom, the Negro has not been sufficiently practical to appreciate this point of view. Plenty of churches are available, and services are held all day Sunday. And it is easy, so easy, to say they ought to go—everybody ought to go. But does everybody go? Would everybody go? And the most discouraging part of it is that everybody does not go.

Some young men, if there were a clean place to go and indulge in the pastimes that are a custom with many of them, would be glad to avail themselves of the opportunity. Yes, they would be glad. And, by so doing, they would perforce meet others, who were likewise seeking amusement. Thus brought together, they would know and appreciate the good in each other. And still further, when they would go their many ways in life, they would naturally spread the gospel of good, or whatever was worth while. Such was the natural tendency of environment. She had just witnessed such an example, a mere incident in the city's life. Those boys had not all known the game when they began to play. But those who did know it, and had likewise learned it from somebody else, had, of course, in turn taught it to these others, who would in turn teach it still to others, and so on. Evil environment, bad influence. She had seen these lurking evils in so many places in this city of the south. And, as the months went by, they took heavy toll in startling numbers among the black children.

The effort of Wilson Jacobs would not soon be appreciated. It would take years for all these young men to see and know the real worth of such an institution. But it was the duty of society, nevertheless (and what was the church but the center of society), to put forward all its efforts toward the evolution of its members.

Oh, some day Mildred Latham hoped she could do more. Apparently, for the present, she had done her best. But, as to how she could continue doing that which she loved better than anything else to do, helping others, she could not now see clearly. She had no plans whatever for the future, as she lay stretched across the bed this warm afternoon. She had no thought of leaving the city, and still, she now knew that it was only a question of time when she would hear from this man again. He had said nothing, but she had read evil in his eyes. He would strike sooner or later, of that she was sure. But she was now resigned to the inevitable. She decided to continue her work the next day, and to be brave. She was away from those whom she would dislike to see embarrassed. Maybe he might go about his business, if he had any, and let her alone. That was all she asked. If he spoke to her again, and forced himself upon her, she would ask him to do so. She would even beg him not to annoy her. And in the next thought, she realized how useless this would be.

She was in the street now, and was walking along. This part of the city stood upon a considerable hill, and some distance away ran the mighty river. Its muddy water could be seen from where she stood. In that moment, she wanted to be within its shining ripples. They led to the mightier ocean, hundreds of miles below. Impulsively she now sought the river, and decided to walk all the way. She had walked to it when she had stayed with her dear friends—yes, very often. And then, as she thought of them, a fear arose in her bosom, that she might possibly meet them. That would never do, and she turned back. Oh, why could she not meet them? How much would it have meant to her to feel herself in Constance's arms; to feel those kisses upon her cheek, and to know that someone loved her. Yes, to see Wilson, and appreciate his great kindness. When these pleasant thoughts had spent themselves, she realized they could never be anything more to her. No. She could go back there, and they would take her in and ask no questions; they would be good to her, and appreciate her desire to do good; but it would always be different—now. No. Her life was before her—she must work out her own destiny. Whither would it lead? She made no effort to answer this question.

She thought now of Wyeth. She formed his name with her lips, and spoke it aloud, and was made strangely happy and forgetful of that which troubled her, when she heard it pronounced. She repeated it: "Sidney." Oh, but to hear him call to her now as he did that day! The day they danced, and she had heard him stifle the passion; she had seen his eyes, and they had hypnotised her; and, in that moment of sweet insanity, she had not resisted the kiss that she saw he would imprint. No. And she had never been sorry. Somehow, that one moment had been her guiding star. She would continue into the future, and thus it would always continue so.

She arrived at the place—not home. She could never call this place home; but where she had her room. She came around to the rear; she did not know why. And then she was sorry too. Ranged about, without regard as to how they sat, were men and women. Their faces were flushed, while their smiles were amorous. She almost choked as she begged pardon, and hurried around to the front. She had not gotten out of reach of their voices, when she heard the men say: "Gee! Some kid! Who is she?"

"Aw, she's a little nicey, nicey girlie, that don't drink, nor smoke, nor chew, nor—anything; but goes t' church on Sunday," the black woman answered, and laughed a nasty laugh.

She was in her room and was glad she was shut away from the comment. To forget it, she busied herself with the names of her subscribers, and worked over the same until the sun had disappeared for the day, and twilight was in the air. She lit a small lamp, drew down the shade, and, taking up The Tempest, read until sleepiness drove her to bed.

CHAPTER FOUR

"Aw, Reverend Castle don't preach this religion lak I wants to hear it preached," some complained.

"Um—m!" exploded others.

"They ain' no 'ligion no mo' 'mong the people; they is all out fo' style!" still others said.

And thus it went. "Out for style," was, in a great measure, quite true; but Reverend Castle's sermons could easily be understood, if those who attended made any effort whatever to do so. But they did not, and Mildred could never reconcile herself to this.

Back in Cincinnati, she recalled when she used to attend a certain theatre. The only reason colored people were allowed to purchase admittance, was because they did not come in great numbers. There were theaters where they were denied entrance, because they made such disgusting disturbances. And it was only because they would come and make no effort to understand the performance, unless it was something below par, and something entirely comic.

In this city, she had attended a great motion picture drama. It was a play built upon an incident in the history of the struggle for Christianity—the effort to overthrow the power of Caesar. Above all, it was a play for Christians, which these multitudes professed very loudly to be. And yet the entire performance was disturbed by the gallery, where only the black people were allowed to sit. They were assigned this portion, because so few understood or made any effort to understand the play. These were some of the facts in the lives of her people, which exposed the Negro to the contempt of the white race.

Wilson Jacobs and Reverend Castle were preachers of a new type, and there were many other such ministers; but the masses continued to preach in the old style, regardless of the fact that many had prepared themselves to preach as these men did. The old type still continued to work upon the emotional fibre of the congregation. And, likewise, in so doing, others were disturbed who wished to be taught. But the sermons of Reverends Jacobs and Castle were not disturbed by emotional demonstrations. The people were, if the truth be known, inspired to higher ideals and a more lofty conception of life. Christ was pictured in such sermons, not as the moralist, but in the highest type of perfection, as an incentive to noble conduct.

Autumn finally came with its many varied tints, and the leaves were falling. Jack Frost had placed his feathery designs for the third time upon the window panes, and, in the meantime, the work for social betterment went on apace.

The effort toward the securing of the colored Y.M.C.A., as it was referred to, had proceeded to the extent that it was on everybody's lips. Wilson Jacobs had proved to be a secretary of unusual efficiency.

Mildred kept herself informed of it through the columns of the papers, and was always delighted to see that subscriptions were being paid to an encouraging degree; but she saw that, of the thirty-five thousand dollars to be raised by the colored people of the city, only six thousand dollars had been paid in, after two months campaigning. This was encouraging, nevertheless, for Grantville, with a much more intelligent Negro population, had only secured two-thirds of this amount at the end of six months. Yet twenty-nine thousand dollars were to be paid in. This amount had been over subscribed, but, getting the money was a different story. Would the black people of this town pay the twenty-nine thousand dollars before, or by the first of the coming year? For, on that day, the time limit of the Jew's contribution would expire; also, that from other sources; but it was the money from the Jew philanthropist, that figured most prominently. Frankly, when Mildred saw it, she smothered her doubts as to their ability of obtaining the desired amount.

Rallies for the purpose of raising money were given weekly, but winter-time was approaching, and colored people very often had little set aside for such a purpose. Then, already work was shutting down, and had shut down in many cases. Hard times had been felt for some time, but were beginning to be felt more so. Men by the hundreds walked the streets in search of employment, and found instead, trouble. Arresting for vagrancy had been stopped by the order of the court. Many preferred being locked up, for they complained it was so difficult to secure bread, and even at times an impossibility; whereas, while locked up, they could eat. And that meant much.

Churches were now begging for money to buy coal; the annual interest on indebtedness was past due, and Reverend Castle did double work—the Y.M.C.A. and his church.

And it was about this time, when one evening Mildred returned from her work, and was informed by the black woman, that she had a caller. She was surprised, and looked it. The black woman was too, and she likewise looked it. Moreover, she made comment. Mildred had never had a caller before.

"A gentleman," said the other, when the look of surprise spread over her face. The other winked and continued: "Some guy, too. Yes, swell," and laughed in a way which Mildred always disliked to hear.

"Who was he?" she presently inquired, thinking of someone with a growing fear.

"Didn't leave no name; said you wouldn't know it nohow," whereupon her black face took on a look that was tantalizing. Mildred ended it by going to her room. She felt the call would be repeated. And then would come the climax. She experienced a tired feeling. This being sought by one whom she did not seek, was nerve-racking; but she steeled herself for the ordeal. She hoped, since she now felt that he would call, that he would come again that same evening, and she would have it over.

And he did.

She was about to retire, but not to sleep. For, as the time passed, her nerve began to break under the strain of waiting, and she was fatigued.

"The gentleman has returned, Miss," announced the voice of the black woman, as her fingers played upon the door. Mildred opened it forthwith, and—yes, there he was. He pushed himself in without being asked, and, being surprised at the intrusion, Mildred let go the knob, whereupon he grasped it, and closed the door. He smiled at her now; a smile that lurked, that boded no good; and she felt this, with a heaving of the breast.

"Haven't seen you for some time. Why don't you bid me welcome?" he leered. Her eyes stared at him coldly, but her bosom heaved, nevertheless.

"Don't stare at me as if I were an iceberg," said the other, with his smiles. "Just an old acquaintance from"—and he jerked his thumb in the apparent direction of Cincinnati. He smiled a cruel, hard smile, as he did this, dropped uninvited into a chair and lit a cigarette.

"Have one?" he invited, and then snickered. "You are real cute now-a-days, I observe," he tortured. "Quite a church lady, ha, ha!" And he gave up to his mirth for a few seconds. "Quite cute with the preachers. Wilson Jacobs is 'bugy' 'bout you. Awful bad for you t' get up and steal away so mysteriously." He looked at her now with ill concealed glee, and then continued: "I didn't know you'd 'beat' it until the next Sunday; when I passed I didn't see you sitting on the porch with him; but, instead, he sat there alone, looking like the devil before dawn. About the time I saw him, he saw me, and looked at me as if he had caught me trying to break in his house, or something, so I lit out. I 'hunched' you'd fled d' coup then, 'n' as I was 'beating' it down the street in no slow gate, I see's a drayman a-greasin' his old hack. I had a premonition this guy, the way he regarded me, was likely to follow. So I just slips into this old crow's nest, and gets behind some-a-his junk, and gets int' conversation with him, and, sure enough, it wasn't three minutes before this 'preacher' comes walking by a-lookin' right and left for me. I laffed in my sleeve, and continued talking with the old skate. A bent key encountered my hand on the ground, 'n' I raised it up. The old buzzard spied it, and cried: 'That's a gal's key that come down heah t' have me move her in a hurry las' Sunday. I oughtta sent it to'r, but 'lows I ain' got the time.' Just lak a flash, I get's wise, so I says t' 'im: 'Was she the girl that stayed up at Jacobs'? If so, I'll carry it to her, since she's a'friend a-mine's.' 'By gad,' he coughs, ''n' I'm the one that'll let y' too,' and looked grateful. 'Where did she move to?' I inquired like I didn't care, and then added: 'Y' see, I know the place by sight, but I can't find it 's I'm turned around down here a little.' He puts me next, and I beats it up to where youse 's roostin' 'n' I comes up, I see this ole black hen a-workin' away with the house all open, 'n' nobody about, I dopes at once that you, sweet little girlie, is off some'eres to church.

"You know the rest," and rising now, he came toward her. "You ought t' be willin' t' give me a kiss now, honey, for showing how hard I'm willin' to hustle for a sight a them eyes." He advanced to where she stood. He smiled as he came, while she recoiled from the sight of him, and retreated. That appeared to please him, and he began a merry chase, dodging behind chairs and jumping up and down playfully. "Wants t' tease, eh? That's a way with you little women, yu lak t' tease! Ah! That's what makes us lak yu'. 'N', kid, I sho' does lak you. You are a pretty little wench—I mean little gal," he corrected, continuing his chase.

"Please go!" she cried hoarsely. "I don't know you. I don't want to know you. Why do you torment me!" He only smiled now, and looked grim and determined, as he at last cornered her. Between them was a chair. She got behind it, and grasped the back of it. He halted on the other side, and showed his teeth for a full minute, before he said a word, or a word was spoken.

"Did you hear me! Why don't you go! If you were a gentleman, you'd go!" His eyes narrowed to mere slits, and then he suddenly opened them wide.

"Just a kiss, dearie, why all this argument. Sometimes it goes so far that it spoils all the sweetness. Just allow me to turn this chair until I can be seated, and then I will draw you down, nicey, upon my knee, and everything is O.K.—see!" He now grasped the chair, which, despite her efforts to hold it as it was, he twisted slowly from her grasp. The next minute he had succeeded, and nothing was between them. He made one step in her direction, whereupon she recoiled in fright. He caught her wrist with his right, and then with the left, he proceeded to encircle her waist. The next moment, she felt his hot breath in her face, and then, with her free hand, she struck him a resounding smack full on his cheek, with all her strength. He released her so quickly, that he staggered backward blindly for a moment. The next he had recovered, while his face was colored with the blood she had brought to it. His eyes were narrower now than ever, while his voice, as he spoke, came in gasps.

"Why, you little wench! You little imp! You little fourflusher! You little —— strike me, when I have kept my head closed all this time, while you sailed about here with these big niggers, the nicest little nicey. Ha! Nice—Hell! How long do you figure these church people would kite you about, if I told them what you were back in Cinci'!"

She flew to the door now, and jerked it wide. A bundle of meat with clothes on, fell in with a scream. It was the black woman, and she had heard all.

CHAPTER FIVE

Mr. Wilson Jacobs,

Secretary Y.M.C.A.

My Dear Sir: Receipt of your letter of December 1, is here acknowledged. I note carefully what you say in regard to your efforts in relation to the securing of funds for the Y.M.C.A. for the colored youth of your city.

You are of course aware that my offer, made five years ago, in which I agreed to give the sum of $25,000 to any city, where an additional sum of $75,000 was forthcoming from other sources. The time I made that offer was five years ago January of the coming year. Therefore, the time will expire at twelve, December 31, this month.

With regard to extending the time limit on these gifts, I regret to say that I have made no such provision. Moreover, with the present condition of the financial outlook, I cannot see my way[Pg 363] clear to do so. However, all cities that report favorably up to that date, I will fulfill my agreement.

Regretting that I cannot write you more favorably, but hoping it will be possible for you to comply with my offer, I beg to remain,

Very truly, J. Rosenthal.

He laid the letter aside. He had known before he wrote, what to expect, for announcements had come from Grantville, that the philanthropist would not extend the time on his gifts for this purpose. Hard times had spread over the country, until not enough was being collected to maintain the cost of the office and advertising, notwithstanding the fact that they secured it at the smallest possible rate. Both were compelled to acknowledge now that a failure seemed imminent. To secure the gift of the Jew, it was necessary for them to raise still more than twenty-seven thousand dollars.

Could he raise such a sum in view of prevailing circumstances?

"Have you received a decision from the railroad president, who personally contributed five hundred dollars, Wilson?" Constance now inquired.

"The hoped for appropriations for such purposes have been deferred indefinitely," he replied. "So there is no hope now, only from the local interests, and they, I fear, are hopeless."

"And you see no place where such a sum might be raised—in so short a time?" she asked again, a trifle nervous.

"Only to go north, and try to enlist the sympathy of other philanthropic persons."

"And—will—you go?" She looked at him now, anxiously.

"Yes, I will go," he returned.

"May God be with us!" she sighed, and picked up the afternoon paper. She glanced over it, and saw the usual accounts relating to the shutting down of various industrial concerns, and, as she looked further, there were the same accounts regarding the colored people. The business of fighting and stealing and getting drunk went on more actively than usual, if such were possible. She laid it aside presently, and picked up her subscription list. She was still selling the book, and had a great many sales for the holiday trade.

When she paid the charges on a consignment of books a few minutes later, and unwrapped them, she thought of her dear friend who had brought her attention to the work. How much she would have liked to see her, she did not conjecture; but she was glad now she had taken up the work. The returns from the sale of it, had meant a great deal to the home in the past months. Wilson, who usually made some money otherwise than what he received from the church, which was small, had been unable to look after or give his time to anything but the work of the Y.M.C.A. Therefore, the money from the sale of the book had come in at an opportune time.

As for Mildred, the earth seemed to have swallowed her, insofar as they had been able to ascertain. Wilson had worried to a point where he now looked ten years older than he had six months before. Grantville had given up in despair. Five thousand dollars was all they had been able to raise, and, therefore, realized how useless it was to continue the effort, which had subsequently come to an end. She believed in her brother; she was confident he could raise the amount necessary, if he had the time. If the gift from the Jew could have been possible a year hence, she was confident he could raise the balance; but, with less than four weeks, it seemed hopeless.

And yet, "as long as there is life there is hope!" He would go north the coming Monday—this was Friday—and she hoped he would be successful. Until he returned, she would not despair. She made preparations for his departure, by packing his steamer trunk, washed his handkerchiefs, purchased many little necessities from her own purse, and placed them along with the rest of his belongings.

"Will you go to New York or Chicago?" she inquired as they sat at dinner.

"I suppose the chances are better beyond New York. I shall, of course, go directly to New York, but from there I will go into New England. I have credentials from several well known white people, as well as letters from the secretary of the white Y.M.C.A. here, and at Effingham and Attalia, so I think that part is quite sufficiently looked after."

When Reverend Wilson Jacobs had dined, he felt like walking, and, drawing on a light overcoat and cap, he strolled out into the chill December night. The air was still, and the stars gleamed brightly, as he strolled down the street in the direction of the river. When he had gone three blocks, he decided to walk to the river, and look out upon its water for a spell. So, increasing his speed, he walked briskly in that direction.

To reach the river by the street he was following, it was necessary to pass through a district of the town that had not the best reputation. It was a part of the town, inhabited in former days by denizens of the underworld, and was interspersed with many halls and buildings that had been built for such purposes. Since liquor had been voted out of the state, and the city likewise, while the women had also been forced to scatter, due to the enforcement of the law relative to their profession, the neighborhood had been given over largely to bootlegging. Places operating under the guise of soft-drink shops, sold liquor as freely as the saloons had, when they operated in the same places a year ago. And, in this district, holdups and other cases of outlawry were a common occurrence.

He had arrived, and was passing leisurely through this part of the town, when, ahead of him, a figure crossed the street, and entered one of the dives. Something about the swing of the arms, made him recall that he had seen that person before. He thought it over, as he approached the place the other had entered. He had not reached it, when the other emerged, and made his way up the street ahead of him, only a few yards. He studied the character, and when he turned into another place a few doors up, he recalled where he had seen him. It was the man who had paused before his gate months before, and whom he had started to follow, but who had eluded him. He saw no reason for paying him further attention now, and passed on to the river.

He returned by the same street, and as he came abreast of an open door, he overheard voices and caught a glimpse of the man again. He halted, and leaned beside the door in the shade of the building a moment, out of sheer curiosity. The voices came to his ears plainly, as he stood there.

"I have reason to believe she has money," said one, whom he surmised was that of the man he had seen.

"If she has, you have spoiled your chances of getting hold of any of it."

"How do you figure that out?" said the other gruffly.

"Well, what you should have done was to have communicated with her while she was stopping up here with that preacher and his sister, and made her come across to keep you from putting them next. Now, 's I figure it out, you blows in on her with your recognition game, and frightens her out of her wits, and she flies the coup. And then, to make matters worse, you trail her across town to where she 'beats' it, and, instead of using a little diplomacy, you blow in on her and frighten her away from there. You played a deuce of a game, you did." The tone was impatient, and, from the way the other shifted, it was quite obvious that he was not playing a clever one either.

"Well, she was such a good looking little wench that, to be truthful, I lost my head over her," the other laughed a low, hard laugh, as he said this.

"Lost your head, hump!" growled another. "I can't get into my nut, how you blame nigga's get in your ugly knots, that a gal that's got the sense you say this gal has, is going to fall to a cheap nigga like yourself." The voice showed that the speaker was plainly disgusted.

"Aw, old shine, I've had some a's good looking a gals as her on my string, don't fool yourself 'bout that," the first speaker retorted.

"How much sense did they have in their nuts? None! If they had, they'd a never fooled with you."

"Well, I'm still trailing her. I ain' give up yet. I'm determined I'll bring her to time, or I'll know the reason why," the other declared, determinedly.

"Don't the ole cat down where she was roosting, know where she has gone?" inquired the other now.

"Don't know a thing. Swears that she don't, and I b'lieve her. She's a little sore 'cause I blew in and scared her away. Funny, too, 'cause that old woman's so crooked she cain' lay straight in bed. And, say, you know Lizzie, the good looking black gal that comes over to Dago's place, and licks up so much booze?"

"Who, Slender Liz? Sure! Why?"

"That's her ma."

"The dickens!"

"Sure is!"

"That beats the devil. I know her; but I didn't know until this minute that Liz was her brat. And you mean to say this little gal what you lost your head about and chased away, was stopping with the old woman?"

"That was where she slapped me blind at."

"Well, I'll be darned. I shouldn't have thought she'd have stayed around her very long, when she got next to what was going on."

"Well, the little wench was so frightened when she left this preacher up here, that she didn't know where she was going, and she got into the place hurriedly, and then after she had got tied up there, she seemed to have decided to stick it out until she could do better. Then, besides, the old woman told me that she don't think the gal knew she sold liquor, and ran a crap game every Saturday night. Her room was so located that the gamesters came and went without going near her room. Then, the gal kept herself shut in like a prisoner, when she was around, besides."

"I wish you hadn't spoiled this deal. I believe we could have dug enough dough out of her to stake us into a game, when we're settin' 'roun' broke like we are now."

"I'll get her, just be patient. I don't believe she's left town; but I can't pull the old woman for any more information. Besides, she ain' got over me frightening her away, 'cause she said the gal was sure a fine roomer, and that she is sorry now that I found her at all. These old crooks can be won over when you come clean at that."

"Bet your life they can. And when you get the friendship of one like that, they'd go through fire for you."

There was a shuffling about now, as if someone was coming toward the door. Wilson hurried away, and walked rapidly in the direction of home.

CHAPTER SIX

"My poor, dear little girl; my brave little girl; and you must bear this burden and sorrow all alone," he murmured in a strained voice, as he approached his abode. "Somewhere in this city she is in fear tonight, in fear of these dark creatures. I would give half my life to find her this very night. Oh, that I had some clue! She would not have me find her, but that is a matter that I would waive aside. Her happiness, even her very life, is in danger. And, whatever this evil may be, I will never believe, even from her own lips, that Mildred Latham is guilty of any act that would not become a lady. Somewhere in the past, she has, in some way, become involved, and this, in some manner, is the occasion of the mystery; but I have faith in her above all others." And so, with this thought, he entered the house and his room, where he walked for hours trying to form some plan of action.

"I will find her. I must find her," he declared, with compressed lips, time and again; but, as to how, no way seemed clear. "I must leave Monday on the mission, and I must try to find her before then. I don't care what it is—has been, and might be in the future—I love you, Mildred, I love you—nothing else matters. I have faith in you; I believe in you above all others; with your presence, under my protection, I feel I could do the things you had faith I could do!" He almost raved at times, during the still hours that followed.

All the kind words she had said to him in the months gone by, came back to him as he trod the floor—thinking, thinking, thinking. "You will succeed; you will become, 'ere long, a leader of men," she had said once. "For it is you, courageous, with the strength of your convictions, this race needs; and it is you they will eventually find."

She had said this with all the fervor of her soul. And he had listened; he had hoped, and then he had worked. Yes, Wilson Jacobs had worked hard to raise those few thousands, that would revert back to the donors in four weeks, if a preponderous sum was not raised by midnight of December thirty-first. December thirty-first, midnight? God, how that sounded in his ears now. The fateful night! One minute after that hour, sixty-seven thousand dollars, waiting from other sources than the black people of this town, would be no longer available. Seventy-three thousand dollars for the future moral welfare of thousands of young men of this race would no longer be available, unless he, Wilson Jacobs, could raise twenty-seven thousand dollars in a day over three weeks.

That was his burden.

If he, Wilson Jacobs, could raise such an amount, innumerable black children yearly, and until the end of time, oh, how long.... Until the end of time, would be saved and have their chance, their great chance, to become men! How much they needed it, these black youth! Only to see any daily, every daily paper, would answer this! And how much would they appreciate it? Yes, how much would they appreciate it?... And yet, what did that matter?... Yes, there were plenty who would say off-hand, "They would not know how to appreciate it; they are incapable of appreciating it." ... But that was from those who did not think deeply—and, yes, the majority, by far, of this race to which he belonged, did not think deeply. But Wilson Jacobs did. He had made it a part of his young life to think deeply, and in the interest of those who needed him.

And now they needed him. Oh, how much they needed him, and how much strength he needed to raise twenty-seven thousand dollars before midnight of December thirty-first!

"Black people do appreciate that which is for their good; but, be merciful, dear God, they know it not. But they will, and when they do come to know it, how much life, how much feeling and enthusiasm they will exert! And may we not say the same of all of us!"

He had been a very young man when his country—yes, his country—regardless of the fact that many of this race now said, with pent up anger, "This is not our country, it's the white man's country." How much bitterness they put into the words, he could not soon forget; but this was his country, and he proclaimed it as such, and had enlisted and gone away to that little island to the southeast.

He was with that cavalry; that cavalry of black men. And when thousands of aimless bullets poured upon America's greatest cavalry (commanded by the greatest American citizen since one immortal one, who met his death cruelly, but for this country), and tumbled them from the saddles like so many playthings, he would never forget that battle cry, "Onward boys!" And from another direction, they came, black men. Up a hill that was forbidding in the abruptness of its ascent, they went. Under the heavy fire of the enemy, they did not flinch.

What they did on that memorable day in our modern history, the world knows. And if a part of our citizens did not appreciate it at this date, one did. And he proved it in after-years. So, when he heard these poor men of his race now bemoan their fate, crying "This is a white man's country. We have none!" he sighed, and felt pity in his heart for them.

After the war, he had gone to Arizona, and spent one summer there at a ranch during his vacation. And this ranch was among the Navajo's. Dull, listless, inert creatures they were. They did nothing to make this country a better place in which to live, and they had never done so, nor were they ever likely to. But, in spite of that, they are the primitive inhabitants and heroes; but not in the best sense, could anyone live among those people three months and conscientiously regard them as men. And yet they were given every consideration, while black men were thrust aside. And this was after three hundred years, out of which two hundred and fifty were spent in developing that which is called Dixie.

And, in spite of these conditions, Wilson Jacobs was the most optimistic of all men. He conscientiously believed that this was a black man's as well as a white man's country. Yes, he heard those others say: "This is a white man's country!" and they said it very loudly; but these same men were the scions of those who had tried, at the price of all their wealth and blood, to divide it. He never let his memory dwell upon this. Other black men did, though. So much so, that they made themselves unfit for this new generation. What has been done, he always considered could never be undone. If prejudice against his people was the custom here, prejudice against the Jew elsewhere, was usual also. "But it isn't right!" they would deplore. And, of course, he could only agree that it wasn't. To hate thy brother, is contrary to the laws of Christianity, under which we live.... But the prejudice remained after all that could be said. "It's growing worse!" they cried. "Yes, it appears to grow worse," he also agreed. "Then, what have you to say?" And he answered: "Nothing!" And then asked: "And you?" "Nothing!" "Then, what are we to do? Become examples of dull inertia by grieving over it, or shall we struggle to become men, and through the strength of our mind and bodies, make this a better place in which to live, if only for ourselves? For live, we must. Not since the beginning of the world have ten million souls sunk into oblivion." The pessimist always departed at this point.

After all, Jacobs felt sorry and pitied both—the ones who bemoaned their fate, and those who boasted. Both were in error. For, regardless of what was said, he loved America, his home and "a man's country"!

So, when college had given Wilson Jacobs his degree, he drifted about for a year among his people. He had never thought of the ministry as a vocation. And it was only when he had seen his people as they were—not altogether as they ought to be, did he appreciate the fact that he might be able to help them. He had learned while at school, but more in actual life, that Jesus lived and died as a moral example. But his people saw only the individual.

So back to school he had gone, where he studied five long years, to fit himself for his present calling. His success was yet to come. Mildred Latham had said it would come. "Oh, Mildred! For you I would go through eternity," he declared feverishly. But only the silent walls answered him.

After many hours, he retired. The sun was shining, although it was December, when he heard Constance calling him to breakfast. How much he would have liked to have said: "Constance, Mildred is somewhere in this town, our Mildred! She is being persecuted, Constance, our Mildred is being persecuted—being hounded out of the sweet life we know she lived, and inspired in those about her!" And he knew that Constance would say: "Go forth, my brother, and find her; bring her back into our home, that we may love her and make her our sister, for it is as such she was, and more, these many months." That was the spirit of the Jacobs. But he kept his peace, and ate in silence.

Monday came, a cold, dreary day. Snow fell all over the country, and Dixie land, far south, was white mantled. Wilson Jacobs went to the depot, for he was leaving on a great mission. Would he succeed? He hoped so; others hoped so; and Constance hoped so, as well as Mildred Latham.

But he never knew.

CHAPTER SEVEN

"Delightful, to say the least." The elder woman had secured some learning in her childhood, and had studied by consistent reading, until she was well informed, and used the most perfect English. "Went out into the great west. To the Rosebud Country. Well, well. I read all about that country when it was opened to settlers some years ago. I wanted my son to go; but—he went elsewhere," and she paused to swallow, while a tear shone in her old eyes. Mildred spoke of other things. The other didn't say, but quick intuition told her that son had gone to the chain gang.

She had found this place two days after the visit that was paid her by the unwelcome guest. It was far removed from the black woman, and she was glad of it. And yet, when she was taking her leave, that apparently evil creature had shed tears and begged her to stay, saying that she would not be molested further. Mildred felt a human pity for her, but she knew she could not have stayed on. The longer she lived, the more she was learning that secrets are not good things to share with others, or for others to be in possession of, regardless of their good will thereto. She now knew that the only way she would have people to know these things, people she might chance to live with, would be to tell them before she moved into the house. To have them find out afterwards, and from others, would be, she felt, an infringement upon their kindness. As for the man who had, with his persistency, driven her from two places, she hoped he would not succeed in finding her in the present.

The following day, she went about her work with heavy heart. She felt she must continue in the work as long as she was in the city; and besides, she had accumulated many orders for the holiday trade, and could, with her efforts, secure many others. But it was not this alone that held her in this city, it was something else.

She was following the effort of Wilson Jacobs to secure the Y.M.C.A. Each week, she carefully noted the details in regard to the same, and had fearfully observed that it might fail. She was aware of the time limit, and she was worried over the lack of the twenty-seven thousand dollars. "How can he raise such a large sum in so short a time?" she asked herself many times each day. And yet she still hoped he would, even when less than four weeks were left in which to do so.

She had managed, by dint of economy and hard work, to accumulate almost two hundred dollars since she left them, and this she would give at the right moment, when she saw there was any possible chance of his succeeding. She would have to send it anonymously; but desire for his success was her gravest concern.

Sunday came, and she stayed at home for the first time since she came to the city. The sound of the bells made her feel terribly sad and lonely. To have heard Wilson Jacobs, or Reverend Castle, would have been a privilege of which she would have been thankful to have availed herself, but fear kept her confined to her room all that day. She felt positive that he would visit all the churches in search of her that day, and other Sundays. So, with this pleasure denied her, she felt more lonely now than she had ever felt before, since coming to the city.

She purchased a book, a new novel, the evening before; so in this she concentrated her mind all that day. It was an unusual story, which made it more interesting. It seemed that, in England, where the plot lay, a postmaster was likely to be removed through subtle influences. To save the position for him, because of her love, his wife, who was all to him, made a sublime sacrifice. It came to his attention, and in doing so, the fact of her past was also revealed. It was a terrible book, to say the least, but between the lines was a moral that the reader was compelled to appreciate. In the end, the man was redeemed to her through the church—the Baptist church.

Two weeks passed without event. Her work went along nicely, and she succeeded in delivering to almost all of her holiday customers. It was about this time that she became deeply concerned with regard to the possibility of securing the Y.M.C.A. Wilson Jacobs had not returned, nor had any word come from him, so far as the public knew, as to whether he had met with success. But Mildred entertained grave doubts regarding the matter. If he were succeeding, it was her opinion, that some word would be wired that cheer might fill the hearts of the anxious ones waiting. She wished she could go to Constance, and comfort her during these anxious days. That desire became so uppermost in her mind and heart, that it was with difficulty she kept herself from rushing madly to the house, and throwing herself to the other's feet. She felt strangely guilty. She had convicted herself in their eyes, by fleeing. It couldn't be changed now. No, she could not go to Constance, as much as she wanted to. And, as she looked into it deeper, she came to realize that she could never go to Constance again.... That was the hardest part of it. Never to go to her again. Oh, the anguish it gave her when this was regarded as a reality.

"Constance," she prayed on her knees that night. "Constance, will you, can you forgive me; can you forgive Mildred? She loved you and your brother, and it was because she was weak; because she felt that she could never have stood to see both of you know—felt me otherwise than as you knew me. Oh, I have suffered, Constance; I have died a living death. Daily I long for you; I pray in the only way I know how that he, your brother, whom I know to be so strong, and noble and good, may succeed in this great effort; this effort which these others so much need. Some day, oh, Lord, may it come to pass—though my mind cannot now see it, I hope to feel that love again."

And then it came to pass, the next day she met the other upon the streets, He smiled upon her through his ugly teeth, and in soothing words, offered greeting. She passed him by, but knew, without looking back, that he followed. She had completed her work for that day. Many copies of his book she had placed in other hands, and that night many eyes would begin an acquaintance with those years in the west. And now, at her heels followed her vendetta. He would follow her to Mother Jane's? And then she trembled. She could never allow Mother Jane to even think she was any other but "her dear daughter." For it was such Mother Jane now called her. Anywhere now—but there.

She increased her steps, made them faster in a direction that led to—she knew not where, nor cared; but anywhere but to Mother Jane's. Supper would be awaiting her there at six-thirty, as it had waited for her every day these past weeks; but Mother Jane would be disappointed this evening. Mildred Latham would not see Mother Jane at that hour today, and maybe she, Mother Jane, might never see "her daughter" again....

On she went. Before her, over a hill, came a car. She could not catch that one, but others would come that way soon. Maybe by the time she arrived beside the tracks, another might meet her. She hurried. She never looked back. She was too frightened. But intuition told her that he followed. She wished she knew how far he was in the rear. Maybe if the car came before he arrived, she could elude him. Oh, if it would! She was trotting now. She was so near the tracks at this time, that they glistened like steel rays in the distance. From a direction, which was not the way the other car had come, she heard another car. It was approaching, and now it flashed into sight.

The sun had disappeared long ago, and the stars stood out like a million diamonds in the skies above. The evening air was chill, and she rushed—she was running now—past the houses. The car was almost at the crossing. Would she make it? She cried out and waved her hand frantically. It was going to pass her, although she had arrived at the crossing, and regarded it with eyes that were frantic—wild! "Please stop, Mr. Motorman!" she cried piteously.

"Please stop—and save me." It tore by her, the front end. In the rear, she heard the crunch of feet upon the gravel street. She saw the side of the car. It dazzled her. She was lost. She could almost feel the presence of the other. One terrible moment she swayed, and the next, the rear end of the car was before her. Welcome did the inside seem. She must catch that car, she felt—or die. A brass rail touched her hand. Like electricity, it closed over it. She was raised and then felt her body speeding through space. A cry from the inside and a "ting," then a shutting of brakes, and the car came to a stop.

"My God," the conductor was saying, "why did she grab that rail? This is the only line left with cars with the open entry. None of the others can be caught without the consent of the conductor." She looked about her. She sat in the rear of the car that was now speeding into the business section. About her were many anxious faces.

"Why, oh, why," their eyes and lips spoke, as soon as they saw her, "did you take that terrible risk?" But she did not see their eyes, or hear their words—for her eyes were looking for another. He was not there.

And they never knew.