CHAPTER EIGHT

"We will have a big Christmas this year, Gabriel," said she. "Mildred's being with us will make a difference." She was silent now, listening to the fire that cracked in the grate. Presently her eyes sought a place at the table. It was the place Mildred occupied, but she was thinking of another. This other had been all to her, for he was her son. Tears came to her eyes now, as she thought of the years gone by, and the times she had fixed that place for him. Yes, she had fixed the plate there for him a thousand times. But he did not—had not eaten from it for many a meal now. No, he ate elsewhere. As she looked at the place today, strangely she felt he would never eat there again. And he was her only child. If he failed to carry the name beyond his present circumstances, then the name of Gabriel Ware ended with her mute husband, who sat waiting patiently.

"It will be so nice, Gabriel, to have her with us this Christmas. And she stays right at home and reads to us both every night. She is a sweet child, is Mildred. She has been our own daughter since she came here. It has been a treat for me, because I love so much to read; while you have liked since '65 to hear me; but my old eyes cannot follow the lines with the accuracy they used to. No, the lines run together so often now, and when they become clear again, it is so hard and tiresome to find the place. But since she came, with her young eyes, her cheerful smiles, her endless patience with old people, who at the best are hard to get along with, I appreciate that things have been so different."

Gabriel nodded. They lived easily, these two. This may be a "white man's country," but our "Uncle" took care of Gabriel and Mother Jane comfortably. These many years, he gave to them many dollars at the end of every quarter, and he had increased this, until now Gabriel received ninety dollars four times a year.

A step sounded upon the porch. "There she is, God bless her," said Mother Jane, and flew to the door, opening it wide, and then, alas! No Mildred stood on the threshold—but a man.

His teeth shown, and his hat in hand, he stood with a bow, and inquired if Miss Mildred Latham was within.

On the main street of the town, where all cars find their way, Mildred alighted, and, crossing the street, she waited for the car that would take her to the suburbs which was near where Mother Jane lived.

When Gabriel and she had built and settled, it was far from the town, and they had not dreamed, that some day before they died, that their ten acres would be surrounded. But the city grew, and they had sold the ten acres long since, in lots for big prices. They had money, she now knew, a part of which they had received for the lots, and they owned other houses. But a part of what they had was gone. It had been invested in a shoe store, incorporated and conducted by colored people. They knew not how colored people act in such capacity, so, in due time, they failed; therefore, going the way of thousands of such attempts in Dixie. For, you see, these black people had not known how to conduct such a business. They only knew how to wear shoes, when they were fitted by the other race.

"Now for home," Mildred sighed, as she settled back and listened to the hum of the car, as it sped on its way. "Oh, how glad I am that I eluded him," she breathed happily. "I'll be late, which I dislike; but it's better late than never. Blessed old dears," she added, impulsively. And then fell to planning for the Christmas day. It was so near now, that she would have to hurry in her few plans. Months ago, she had hoped she was going to spend a real, genuine, merry Christmas with her friends, the Jacobs; but now, long since, of course, she had given that up. But she was glad that she had found this new place, and had been there long enough to be so high in their favor, as to be the star guest for their holiday.

They were industrious, and raised almost all they ate in a garden of a half acre in the rear. And chickens! Mother Jane had raised two hundred fifty. So they had this meat almost every day. For supper they would have some surely, so, soon she would eat, and then the two would prepare for the coming event. She was impatient to be there.

It was freezing outside. Ice could be seen from the car window, gathering wherever there was water. A nice hot fire they would have, she knew; while she had a good new book that was half read through. After all was done, she would read to them, and so all three would be made happy.

She fell to thinking, to thinking of others, and Sidney Wyeth came to her mind. Last Christmas she had received two nice books from him. He wrote no letter, nor did he autograph the same—he didn't even let her know by word or letter that they were from him, but she knew.

Where was he—where had he been since? She wished she knew, for if she did, as she thought now, she would send him a nice book for a Christmas present. But he would never know it was from her. Her pleasure would be in the giving. That was why presents were given. For the pleasure of giving a token of remembrance. Some people did not consider it that way, but then they were not Christians. She wondered, as the car sped along, how many people who belonged to church did not know they were not Christians.

"I wish I knew where he is," she said again, this time half aloud. "Somehow I believe he would—forget—for a day." And then she thought of Wilson Jacobs, and in doing so, recalled that, in the months gone by, she had seen him at the end of a talk, and was forced to look away. She could not stand the pain in his eyes. Did he care for her? She wouldn't trust herself to believe it. It wouldn't be right. No. She was glad now that it had gone no further. It wasn't right that he should be allowed to do that, and then learn the truth. Oh, the truth! That was her burden. The other had learned the truth, and then he went away. He would never return. No. And Wilson Jacobs would do likewise. She had struggled these months to keep it from him. If he learned from other lips, it would be as sad; but she would at least not have to face him, and see another suffering in his eyes. With Sidney Wyeth, it now seemed different. As she had grown to feel, she believed she could meet him. She felt now that if she could find his whereabouts, she would go to him. Yes. She would go to him and see him, and let him see her. Oh, as much as she loved him—for her love had never died—she believed now she could look in his eyes and ask him to forget. She suddenly made up her mind to leave and seek him. "But I can't," she moaned. "I can never leave here until I know the worst in regard to the Y.M.C.A. No. I would never be happy to leave them to their fate until I know the best—or the worst." Somewhere in the great north, Wilson Jacobs had either by now, succeeded or failed. Which? Until she knew, she couldn't bring herself to leave.

By this time, she had arrived at the getting off place. She sprang lightly from the car, and walked briskly to where a light shone, for one always shone from Mother Jane's window. And it was this light which guided her now. She skipped lightly along, humming a little song as she did so. Again was she at peace with the world, and forgave all who sinned against her. She had no malice in her heart against anyone, as she approached the house—the house of the Wares'—where already the smell of nourishment was in the air.

"Oh, how delightful it is to have a home. A place where someone with love in their hearts awaits you, and, when the door is opened, gathers you in welcome." She thanked Him that is Holy, for being so kind to her.

She had arrived at last, and with a delightful sigh, raised her foot to the step, and as she did so, her eyes glanced through the window. The next moment she fell back, and placed her hand upon her breast, while her heart thumped violently within.

Then she turned, and disappeared into the night, while those inside waited.

CHAPTER NINE

The night seemed to have grown much colder, from the frost that was on the windows, but Mildred Latham did not feel it. Her face, she felt it for a moment, was flushed. And then it occurred to her that her throat was dry. Oh, yes. She knew why, now. She had cried all the way from Mother Jane's to here—wherever it was. And her face was hot, her throat was dry, and she wanted water. She must have water, or she could no longer swallow. For a moment she hesitated before the soda fountain. Then she opened the door and entered. A man who sat in the rear approached. He was a neat man, with a heavy mustache. He invited her to a chair at a table that was near a glowing fire. She took it. He waited her order politely.

"I would like some—a-soda water, if you please," she said hesitatingly. He looked at her a moment keenly, winked his right eye, and then his left—then his right eye again, twice. She looked at him without understanding. He repeated it. She wondered what he meant. Presently he moved behind the counter, and returned with her order.

While she drank it, another, a woman came in. Mildred watched him incidentally. He repeated the winking process, while she glanced at the other, who repeated it. He went now to a room in the rear, and when he returned, he handed her something in a package. The woman gave him a half dollar, and waited for no change.

"You're a stranger about here, Miss?" he said, observing her a bit dubiously.

"Yes, sir," she replied, "I am a stranger about here."

"Oh, I see," he said, now gazing at her very keenly a few moments. "You're one of the solicitors for the Y.M.C.A., I suppose," said he, after a moment's thought.

"No, sir, I am not," she replied with a start, and wondered why he asked her.

"They was a-planning t' have a meeting overhead here t'night, was why I asked," he said.

"Oh, is that so," she commented, and then added: "I am not connected with it in any way, but I am very much interested in it."

"Well, it's too bad," he said thoughtfully, "but I don't think we will ever get such a thing in this town. It's going to be a failure, so I hear."

"Indeed," she echoed, "how so?"

"Well, unless they get twenty-seven thousand dollars together in a week, it's sure to be. And 'f anybody c'n raise that many dollars, 's hard's times is now, I'd lak t' see them," he smiled grimly.

She wanted to ask him about Wilson, but hesitated. Had he returned? He was speaking again:

"They ain't had no word frum the secretary since he left. He went north some time ago, and it was hoped that he might succeed in raising the amount among the wealthy northern people. But it's dollars t' doughnuts that he don't. 'Cause I figure it's lak this: 'f he'd a-had any success up there, some word-a come back by now frum 'im."

So no word had yet come from Wilson Jacobs, and as she thought of his possible failure, all thought of herself and what had been in her mind a moment ago, left her. When she left the place she was calm. But where to go now was another problem. To go back to Mother Jane, never entered her mind. She wandered about for an hour. She now recognized the locality. She was on the same street she had found upon her arrival in the city—Beal street. She walked up this for two blocks, and where many Negroes were assembled. Several picture shows greeted her, but she had no inclination for such amusement.

Presently she turned into another street that led down to the river. It was narrow and poorly lighted, and the people, what few she saw, were ragged and dirty, and forbidding. She walked some distance on this, until she came across another that led in another direction. Into this she turned aimlessly.

She had gone about three-quarters of a block, when her eyes, in glancing up, caught sight of a house, dark and weather beaten, with a glimmering light on the front, under which was written:

Lodging For Men or Women
rates right

She paused. Her hand touched her forehead; it was hot and throbbing. She felt tired, and her eyes were heavy with sleep. She hesitated, turned into the gate, and approached the door timidly. It was a forbidding place, she saw as she came nearer. The door hung weakly upon its hinges, while light came through the many cracks. She shuddered. How different it was from Mother Jane's, where everything was spick and span, clean and well kept. Oh, if she could be home now with Mother Jane! She wrapped lightly upon the door, and it seemed a long time before someone shuffled in that direction.

Presently, after a turning of bolts, or it seemed more like someone was drawing a peg out of a staple, with a squeak, the door opened about a foot. In the dim light, the face of an old woman looked out from a very wrinkled face.

"What d' ya want?" she asked gruffly.

"I see you have a sign up here," and she pointed upward, "that says rooms," she replied, timidly.

"Yeh. Is yu 'lone. Wha's yu man?"

Mildred shuddered, and then she recovered. She was tired and wanted to sleep. Tomorrow she would try to do better. She replied as politely as she could; "I am alone. I have no man."

"Hunh!" grunted the other, opening the squeaking door wide as she said: "Come in!"

Mildred entered and stood looking about her, while the old witch regarded her suspiciously.

"So you're alone, uh? Got no man. Hunh! That's funny." She hobbled to where a lamp set, with chimney smoked, and upon which a crack had been patched with paper. "There's a chair. Sit down, gal." She shuffled about, and when the light was better, by turning it up a bit higher, she came near where Mildred sat, and took a seat in an old rocker which had a sack filled with straw, to make it more comfortable.

"How much do you charge for your rooms?" Mildred inquired.

"Two bits when you're alone. Thirty-five cents if yu got a man." Mildred had surmised that would be the charge, and had the amount ready. She didn't care to have this witch see that she had money. She handed her the quarter. The old creature took it, held it to the light, and examined it a moment before she dropped it into an old pocket.

"Wantta go t' bed now?" the other inquired, a little kinder than she had spoken before.

"I feel sleepy," said Mildred, and looked it.

"All right," said the other, rising with much difficulty. "Ah, gal, that's rheumatiz. Bad. When you gits lak dis, life don't hold much fo' you."

Mildred tried to look sympathetic as she followed her, and murmured something inaudible.

They had entered a room now that corresponded with the remainder of the house, except that the ceiling seemed to be lower, and the room was a bit cleaner. A small fireplace was in one side of the wall, and the bed stood in an opposite corner. Two chairs, a table, a bureau, a wash stand and a pitcher with a clean towel spread over it, made up the meagre furnishings. A rag carpet covered the floor.

"I don't fu'nish fiah," said the other, when she saw Mildred's eyes rest for a moment upon the fireplace. If there were a fire, she now felt she would rest better.

"I should like to purchase some fuel of you to make a fire, if it is possible," she said.

"I'll sell you a nickel's wo'th."

"Very well. Bring it in." When the other was gone, she took fifty cents in change from her purse. She displayed this that the other might see and feel that she possessed little. A few minutes later, she was alone with a fire cracking in the grate, that soon made the room quite comfortable.

She retired when the room had become warm. The heat, in contrast with the air she had just come out of, made her yawn. So, after barring the door securely, she retired, and was soon fast asleep.

She might have slept for an hour, or it may have been only a minute, but she was slowly awakened by a stream of light that poured in through the window. She sat up suddenly, and blinked as the rays fell across her face, and saw that she had forgotten to draw the blind and that the moonlight was streaming into her room.

But it was not that alone which had awakened her. There was some commotion in the street, or rather, in the house next door. A wagon stood at the front, and into it, policemen were pushing men and women. The wagon was a police patrol, and they were making a raid. In a few minutes it was all over, and, dropping back, she was soon asleep again.

CHAPTER TEN

A Chinaman ran the restaurant where she bought her meals. At one of their stores, she had purchased a few dishes and a knife, spoon and a fork, so she brought the meals to her room, and ate the same at the table. She had no plans now for Xmas day. She tried to forget it, but the noise from the street did not permit her to do so. As the sun rose higher, the revelry became more pronounced. She tried to forget the day Mother Jane and she had planned to spend together. She tried to shut out of her mind the day she might have spent with the Jacobs. And she tried, likewise, not to see the dreary day she must now perforce spend—alone.

The sun rose higher and higher, and the day became warmer. So warm about noon, that she raised her window and permitted the soft breeze to float in upon her, filling her lungs with it, and sighing contentedly. She watched the few people that passed that way, and noted that they all appeared so happy. They were all apparently carefree and desirous of getting all the enjoyment that the day afforded. Presently it occurred to her to venture forth and get something. It was bad enough that she must spend it alone; but to hover in the four walls of that little room, was a fact she could no longer submit to.

She passed into the room that may have been called a sitting room, and where the old woman was stewing some meat on the rusty stove. Before the other turned at the sound of her footfall, she scrutinized her for a moment, meditatively. She wondered who this old woman was, who lived thus alone. She fancied what her life must be; she had other roomers, she had observed; but they came in late and left early, so she had no idea who they were, or what kind of people stayed there. She hesitated for a second, and then the other turned and faced her.

"Uh, gal," she creaked in her shaky old voice, "be goin' out t' see a li'l' Xmas, ha, ha! Sho' you might. Cain' stay shut up in that room all time!" And she grinned, which made her features repulsive to Mildred.

"Yes, ma'am, I thought I would step out and look around a while," she answered kindly. "I shall be back presently."

As she went toward the gate, the hag looked after her and shook her head, as she muttered: "That gal's a puzzle, a devilish puzzle. I cain' make her out; but of one thing I'm certain, she's straight. Huh! Yes, she's straight," and she continued shaking her head.

And it was that fact that made her a mystery to this old woman.

She walked along slowly when she got into the street, looking from one side to the other. At the end of the street, in the direction she had taken, was the warehouse district. In the old days, this had been a prominent shipping point by water; but now this had been largely substituted by railroads. The yards were quiet today, as she made her way along, while scarcely a wagon was in evidence around the many large buildings.

She walked in the same direction until she came to a street that led down to the river. She turned into this, and followed it until she stood on the banks of the stream that flowed gently southward. It was filled with a number of boats, while ferries plied back and forth to the other side. For a half hour she stood thus, with her mind free of all care, and enjoyed the stiff air that came with the breeze from the river. When she presently turned to go, she felt strangely invigorated, and decided to walk about more.

Without regard to direction, she finally found herself on Beal street, which she recognized at once. She paused briefly before venturing into it, but the street was filled with music; while across the way, several electric shows invited the crowds that poured in and out. So she went forward timidly. She stopped at length before a black boy who was turning a street piano. The music was exhilarating, and she gave him a nickel when he was starting away, whereupon he dropped the handles and played her three of the popular airs. She gave him another nickel, and he took delight in turning on three more. By this time a crowd had gathered, and, thinking quickly, she slipped away and continued her way.

She stood before a large picture show for colored people a few minutes later. At the front were gorgeous pictures, advertising the show within. She hesitated briefly, and then, fishing a five cent piece from her purse, she entered the show, and took a seat to one side. In a minute her attention was centered on the screen, where a western play in which red Indians and cowboys were in a mimic battle was being shown. The play aroused much interest in the audience, which fairly raised from the seats at times, especially when there was a gun play; and since gun playing seemed to be in evidence, much excitement was attendant during the whole time the reel was being run.

She recalled suddenly, what she had read in the book of Sidney Wyeth, with regard to Indians. He had dwelt at some length upon this subject, and had concluded a chapter with words to the effect that the Indian, as he was today, and had been for years, was in no wise what he was pictured upon the screen, or in novels, but a shiftless being, without spirit. In truth, only an example of dull inertia.

The next reel was much more original, she thought, and, therefore, more interesting—to her; but it wasn't to many of those about her, who, as she heard them, made little effort to catch the moral of it.

It was a play of present day life, in which the hero was a man employed as floor walker in a large department store, while the heroine was a girl, employed in the most insignificant position in the basement of the same. She studied the play, and was carried away with the great human interest conveyed in the plot. It was a difficult task to keep her mind and thoughts upon it, however, because all about her, many remarks came from impatient creatures, who continually muttered aloud, demanding that it be hurried off, and something with "ginger" put on.

"Hu'y, hu'y, 'n' git hit off! Git a gal out the' 'n' some song 'n' dancin'," said one who sat next to her, and who, she observed, was ragged and dirty in the bargain; his long, kinky hair stood erect on his head, and made him resemble something recently departed from the jungle.

When the vaudeville in connection therewith was put on, she was filled with disgust. It was not refined vaudeville, and in no way corresponded with the pictures that had preceeded it; but of the most vulgar sort. It brought shrill cries from the throats of those about her, and remarks that showed the character of the crowd.

"Put the sof' pedal on it, kid, ke-ha!"

"Dat gal sho kin' sing, nigga, believe muh!"

"Kick higher, dare, gal! You ain' done nothin'," growled one, who was not satisfied.

Mildred arose to go out. To get to the aisle, she must pass about ten people, mostly men in rough clothing. "Set down, gal, don' git in front-a me!" one next to her complained.

"Don' spile my gaze when dat gal's showing up lak she is," said another. With a sigh and a disgusted feeling, she sank back and made herself patient, until the disgusting performance was at an end. She had no trouble then, for all those between her and the aisle filed out ahead of her. Apparently they came to the show for the purpose of witnessing the vaudeville only.

When she was on the street again, the sun was getting toward the west, but she did not feel like going back to the hovel she called a room yet. The noise and music seemed to make her forget her troubles and worries, and, mingling with the masses that now filled the sidewalks, she followed them aimlessly along the street. She stopped before other shows, and, when, at last, finding one that appeared to have no vaudeville in connection with the pictures, and which did not appear to have such a big crowd about the entrance, she entered and took a seat toward the rear.

She had been seated about half an hour, when she chanced, upon looking back, to see someone whose face was familiar. She looked toward the front, and then, after a few minutes, in which she tried to recall where it was she had seen it before, she turned her head slowly, and looked again. Behind her, and just seating themselves, were not only three women belonging to Wilson Jacobs' church, and with whom she was well acquainted—they had been her best friends, and had admired her playing and singing—but in their midst, sat Constance herself.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Now was her chance, she thought, as the theater was suddenly plunged into darkness. She arose. Could she make it? In a flash the lights might be on. "Great God!" she trembled. "Suppose they should be turned on!" And with this fear gripping her heart until the perspiration started, she struggled toward the door. She stepped on many toes, while growls and complaints came from the lips of the owners, but she felt her way resolutely forward and toward the aisle. It seemed like an age before her feet found it. Through the place now, matches were flashing. She glanced for a brief second in the direction of those from whom she was fleeing, and, as she did so, someone struck a match. In that moment, the faces of the four came full into view. "Oh, my God!" she cried inaudibly, "they are looking straight at me." But before the flare had died, she breathed a sigh of relief, for, at that moment the lights came on, and they were looking toward the screen.

She passed quietly out, and, when once outside, hurried in the direction of her room.

They had not seen her.

The day was fading into twilight. The sun had set, and with it the wind had fallen; the air had become still, and the stars shone brightly from above.

"If I don't get out of this place for an hour, I will surely die," cried Mildred, walking the floor in a fit of impatience. Having become accustomed to plenty of exercise, the days that had come and gone since Xmas day had seemed like an eternity. Perhaps it was hard for her, because she had not been further than the restaurant since that day. She admitted to herself that she was afraid to go anywhere now. She had not the courage to run the risk of being seen again, and had, therefore, remained confined to her room.

She paused before the window, and looked long and earnestly into the street. Never before had anything seemed so inviting. She was simply mad to be in it, if for only a half hour; but to be in it, she felt she must. After a time, she resolved to run the risk. She fixed herself as best she could, and shuddered when she realized that she had not changed her clothes for a week. At last, with a suppression of her excited nerves, she slipped out of the house, and entered the street just as darkness had set in, and the stars were the brightest.

She hurried along, and when she had arrived at the end of the street, she turned into another, and in a direction she had not been before. Along this she hurried, feeling the sting of the air, which brought the blood to her cheeks, and made her feel real life, after many days of fear and worry. She had been downtown one day before Xmas, where she dispatched a telegram, and now, as she hurried along, it occurred to her to go to the office again. She walked boldly in that direction, and a moment after she had entered, she came out with a satisfied smile playing about the corners of her mouth.

"Now," she whispered softly, "where shall I go?" Without answering her own question, she began walking. She walked until she had exercised her limbs, and they were tired. So she felt like sitting down and resting. Still she continued the way she was going until, in turning a corner, she ran fully into someone and fell back with: "I beg your pardon!" And then suddenly the other fell back.

"Why, Miss Latham!" the other exclaimed, amazed.

"Miss Jones, I declare!" echoed the other, and stood abashed.

"I have not seen or heard of you for months. Indeed, I thought you left town long since!"

"No-o," Mildred mumbled, frightened and embarrassed, all in one.

"And—what—what are you doing—in this part of town!" the other exclaimed, now regarding her suspiciously.

"This part of town?" she echoed bewilderingly. "I—I—don't understand. Why this part of town?"

"Yes, this part of town." She paused a moment and surveyed Mildred in wonder, and then went on: "Why, didn't you know? This part of town—is the restricted district!"

"Oh—Miss Jones!" she wailed. "Heaven help me! I didn't know!"

The other looked at her keenly and a little dubious, and then she said, with a toss of her head, as something seemed to have occurred to her when the other looked at her strangely:

"I guess you wonder what I am doing down here, too."

The other started, and her lips opened to say she had not, but before she could say anything, the other continued:

"Well, I don't mind admitting what I am doing down here, since I see you here, also; but I have been coming down here for a long time. Yes, you see this is not the first time. I have been down here before," and she laughed a hard laugh, as she ended with another toss of her head.

Mildred stood frozen. She could not collect her shattered wits to say anything, but she was thinking. Miss Jones was a member of Wilson Jacobs' church and sang in the choir. "It can't be possible!" she murmured inaudibly. "It can't be possible!" And then, all of a sudden, she felt sorry for Miss Jones, because she had liked her, and thought her very sweet. And now she met her face to face in the worst part of the city! How could this be explained! Miss Jones being encountered in the worst part of the city!... And Miss Jones had, with her own lips, admitted that 'she had been there before. She had been coming there for a long time.' "Oh, God," Mildred cried almost aloud: "This is terrible!" Why did Miss Jones come to this part of town?... Miss Jones came to this part of town and knew she was doing so.... Then, if that were true—which it surely was—Miss Jones was a bad girl.... Miss Jones a bad girl? She could not believe it; and yet, before she could get all this through her whirling brain, she heard Miss Jones speaking again. What was she saying? It couldn't be true! Surely Miss Jones could not mean what she was saying. Oh, horrors! If Miss Jones meant what she was saying, then, Miss Jones regarded her as a bad girl, too. "Miss Jones, Miss Jones!" Something in her now was crying, although her lips moved not. "Please don't, please don't! I am not that way. I am not a bad girl, oh, no, please, please!" And still her lips had not moved. She stood like a dumb person; but she heard Miss Jones clearly:

"Let's go over here to a place I know," she said. "It's safe—nobody but a swell bunch goes there, no tramps or talkers."

She felt all she had heard a moment before now running through her mind, and yet she did not speak. Miss Jones was speaking again:

"We are both in the same boat; one's as bad as the other. No questions asked...."

"Oh, Miss Jones," Mildred heard again, but her lips still were not moved. "How can you, oh, how can you!" Why didn't she do something? She heard herself, but words were not spoken: "Why do you stand, Mildred Latham? Why do you not go—hurry? You have stood too long now. Hurry, hurry! To Mother Jane's—to Jacobs! Yes, to anywhere; but go, go, go!" And still she stood in flesh, and made no reply.

"A swell bunch from the north, railroad fellows with plenty of coin. Some good time, kid. Come on at once. Let's don't stand here and be looked at."

She was in a trance now. She couldn't stand there; she was aware of that. That would be worse. How to get out, she did not know, for she had now forgotten how she came in. But she had no notion of following Miss Jones. No. She would go to Mother Jane's—no, she would go to Jacobs. Jacobs? Who were they? Oh, yes. She remembered now. And when she knew the Jacobs, she had known them for the truth. If she went to them and told them she had just came from the——oh, no, no, no! She couldn't go to Jacobs.... But now she had it. She would go to Sidney Wyeth.... Yes, that was where she would go. He would welcome her. He would be good to her; while she—she—would tell him everything—yes, everything. Oh, she was glad she had thought of him in time. Because if she had waited a little longer, she might not be fit to go to him.

They were going now, Miss Jones and she. Miss Jones was going, where? She didn't know, but she, Mildred Latham was going to her lover, Sidney Wyeth. Oh, how she loved him—she had always loved him; but now she loved him more than ever. And she was going to him, and when she arrived, the first thing she would do, would be to get on her knees, as she did when a little girl, at her prayers. She would tell him all. All the truth from the time she was old enough to remember, until today. Yes, she would tell him all. She would show him how faithfully she had worked in the sale of his book. And she would tell him how she had been driven from place to place, until she had no home nor friends; but, withal, she had remained clean. Clean? Yes, that was why she had struggled so. She had fought everything, to keep clean.... And he, oh, he—would be happy. Oh, he would be so happy. And then they would both—yes, both go to the Rosebud Country together. Wouldn't that be delightful? They would go to the Rosebud Country together and live happily.

"Here we are," she heard Miss Jones saying. She rapped on the door in a peculiar fashion. Presently the door opened, but no one stood beside it or behind it. It had opened from the top of a stair, which they mounted the moment they entered. This led to somewhere, but she followed.

Now they were at the top, and paused for a brief moment; then, turning to the right, they crossed a hallway and entered a room. The door closed behind them, and it was some time before her eyes became accustomed to the darkness within. Why was the room dark? She wondered; but just then it became a blaze of light. She looked all around her bewilderingly. It was a beautifully furnished room, with a soft, heavy carpet, while about the room were many heavy chairs. In the center was a table, and around the side were smaller tables. "What was this place?" she asked herself, feeling the back of one of the heavy chairs. To one side of the room was a huge buffet with a number of glasses, all thin and of many varying sizes, artistically arranged. On the other end was a piano, with an electric cord reaching it from above. And as she stood looking at it, a light within it flashed, and it began to play a song that made the room resound.

"Hark! What was that!" she cried, with her lips closed. She saw the eyes of her companion, as her ears listened to the music. A smile, a wild smile danced in the eyes of Miss Jones. She caught Mildred suddenly about the waist, and before she was aware of it, was whirling her about in a waltz. And the tune—was the Blue Danube!

In the midst of the sweet old tune, the door they had entered a moment ago swung open, and two men entered. They were striking looking men and were dressed in the latest style of clothes. They were both smoking cigars, and the room was soon filled with the aroma. But they must have been good cigars, because the odor they gave off was pleasant—so Mildred thought.

Miss Jones dropped her at once and flew to one of them, who gathered her in his arms, and dreadful, before the others he kissed her. As Mildred swallowed, she turned and nestled in his embrace, and with his hands he pulled her head back until her round throat stood out beautifully, and kissed her again and again.

Mildred was shocked at such immodesty; but before she got over it, the other stood over her, smiling down into her face with eyes that danced like fire. She fell away from beneath his amorous gaze, and ran across the room and got behind a chair. She turned and looked at him wildly now. He hurried after her. His lips were pursed to say something funny, and then he saw her eyes. He stopped suddenly and fell back a step, while his smile died and his gaze, as he saw her now, grew pointed.

"Thunder!" he muttered slowly. The others disembraced themselves, and regarded them for a moment. They looked from one to the other, and then three pairs of eyes rested upon her alone. At first they were dubious, and then, as they saw the frightened look, they changed to something akin to contempt.

"Aw, kid," cried Miss Jones—and Mildred had never imagined she could be so coarse. "'Cut' it. He's a good guy, he is. A thoroughbred!" She looked at the man now, who appeared a trifle angry. "You're spoiling it all. He'd like you; but he don't want too much of the kid play."

"These good lookers are always hard t' land," said the man. "But this trick appears the hardest." Then to her he said: "Come on kid. Look over my hurry of a moment ago. That face of yours, I must say, got me 'daffy'," and he laughed with a toss of the head.

Her tension relaxed, and she permitted herself to come from behind the chair. A moment later they were seated around the large table in the center of the room. A waiter now stood over them, with eyes askance.

"Little Sunny Brook'll do me," said one of the men. The other nodded the same; his eyes rested upon Miss Jones, who tossed her head gayly, and said:

"Aw, Dickie and Joe, I don't like it straight. Make mine a dry martini."

He attended Mildred now, while the others conversed. She did not know what to say. She had not thought of anything to drink; but in that moment she knew she would have to order something.

"A coca cola," she said quietly.

Three pair of eyes regarded her then with surprise evident. As it became clear to them, all threw their heads back and laughed loudly. The waiter stood with a little smile about the corners of his mouth, which showed he possessed a sense of humor.

Mildred was silent and looked at them in surprise. Presently, when they had quieted, Miss Jones said a little impatiently:

"You're a good one, kid. I must say so. Coca cola! ha, ha! But they don't carry coca cola at this 'joint'," whereupon they laughed again.

"Yes, ma'am," now spoke the waiter. "We carry coca cola, but it's used as a wash." They laughed long and earnestly.

"Bring us a quart of Sunny Brook," said the man who was nearest her. "And—yes, bring this little girl here a coca cola—for a wash."

He lit a fresh cigar, and smiled.

"Play cards, kid?" he inquired, and looked at her. "Why don't you say something, sweetness? Gee! Has the cat got your tongue?" he complained a trifle nervously, as he flicked the ashes from the cigar.

The waiter had returned now with many glasses and bottles, and their drinks were before them. Before her was placed a small bottle of the drink she had ordered, while two glasses were arranged beside it, while a larger glass filled with ice stood beside them. The others had before them likewise, all except Miss Jones, whose drink was in a peculiar glass with a long stem, and flashed green in the electric light.

The others poured their glasses about half full, while Mildred poured a part of the fluid in one of the glasses before her. It foamed! She stopped, and when it quit foaming, the glass was only about a third full. She had not observed how much it lacked of being full, when suddenly the room resounded with the music of the electric piano. It took her so much by surprise, that she turned quickly and looked. When she saw that it was only the piano, she turned to them again, as they raised their glasses. She took up hers, at a sign from them. It was full. They all drank together.

She had a mighty effort to swallow hers. When she had succeeded, she made a wry face, and tasted the stuff gingerly. She had never drunk coca cola that tasted like that before. The others smiled naively. She felt strange. She raised her hands to her head. It felt stranger still. She wondered at such a strange feeling after a drink of something she was fond of? She had drunk as many as a half dozen bottles a day, and as many as three bottles in an hour. But three bottles had never any effect; while now, her head was whirling terribly. Everything about her swam. She saw the others smiling, and then she heard herself talking and laughing; but she was not aware of what she was saying.

It was perhaps an hour later, or it might have been only a half, but she was on the street. She was trying to walk, but apparently she was not succeeding, for the man she had run from was supporting her. He had his arm about her waist; while his free hand held both of hers. She was not talking now. She was resting. Her neck was limp. Presently they turned into another place. She did not know where. Before them raised another flight of stairs, and up this they walked—that is, he did and almost carried her. A full minute it took before they reached the top. An old woman met them. Mildred saw her for a brief moment, and recalled that she resembled the one where she had a room.

"My wife is sick," she heard the man say, "is sick. I wish to get a room."

"His wife?" she repeated, but that was all. Darkness was all about her now; but the man repeated his words, and at the same time handed the old woman a half dollar. A moment later a door closed behind them, and the next a key turned.

But Mildred Latham didn't hear it.

The old woman looked after them a moment, as she rubbed the new coin in her palm. She raised it to her lips and kissed it with a smack. She regarded the door of the room in which they had disappeared, and then she burst into a fit of laughing.

"My wife—sick—Hell!" And went about her duties.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Vainly he struggled in the great northeast, to secure those thousands to complete the amount necessary. He had gone from town to town. The people were kind; they were considerate, and they listened patiently; while he waxed eloquent and forceful in his appeal for this great purpose. He met the nicest people he had ever met—he knew that. So refined, and how much they appreciated his great cause, was shown in every town, large or small. They took him through many of the buildings. They were perfect pictures, and the management was the best. The per cent of people who could not read or write in those parts, did not include any of the native born. He had never, he recalled this now strangely, met people who were so courteous. He had been so long in Dixie, and, therefore, accustomed to the country there, that he found it hard to believe that white people could be so courteous to a Negro. True, but they held to their money. They shook their heads and pointed across the water—and he knew.

He had raised less than three thousand dollars. He lacked almost twenty-five thousand of having the proper amount when he returned home.

His sister met him with a kiss. She looked hopefully into his eyes at the same moment, and knew he had failed. So they had said nothing about it. Others came in as soon as they learned he had returned, and it was with a heavy heart that he told them the result.

"Well," said the professor of the colored high school, "you made a brave fight, Reverend. Yes, you made a brave fight. More than ten thousand dollars in such a short time is going some. You beat Grantville by twice the amount, and did it in one-third the time."

"By the way, Doctor," said a mail clerk, as he was passing out. He stopped, and lighting a cigar, continued: "What ever became of that young lady who played at the church, and who started the cash subscription?"

"Yes," said the professor, "I have intended to ask you myself."

"My friends," said Wilson, "it is the strangest thing I ever knew; but we have not seen that young lady since the day you were here—in fact, we have not seen her since she left the church that Sunday."

"Indeed!" both exclaimed. "That is strange!"

"The strangest thing, I should say," he declared. They spoke of it at some length, and then they took their leave. Others had come, and made it harder for him to tell. Words of consolation were given by all, which made it still harder.

He arose after a time, and walked back and forth across the room. He thought of the Y.M.C.A. in a northern city for colored men, and where he had stopped. Such a delightful place it had been. There was a pool hall, a cafe, a barber shop, a complete gymnasium, a swimming pool, a reading room with piles of the latest magazines; in fact, there was everything to keep young men out of bad company, and, at the same time, provided for them a place for clean, manly sport. He had stopped there three days, and during that time he had observed the great good it was doing the young Negro men of that city. The Negro population was not one-fourth that of this town, and still the schools there were the best; while almost everything in the way of public conveniences was open to the black people. If the Y.M.C.A. could be of such great good in a community of that sort, words, figures, estimates, all were inadequate to describe what a great benefit it would be to this town.

And, until the last day he did not despair. He hoped and he worked. "The administration has balled the financial situation up so badly, that it is useless to seek subscriptions for anything," one had told him.

"A million and more dollars he has given away," said the secretary of a millionaire he had consulted. "Yes, I will arrange an appointment," but from the way he said it, he was sure it would do no good.

"Crime and evil environments have undermined the foundations of our society; those people, for whom a million men went to battle fifty years ago and freed, have reached a place in our American society, where it is the greatest mistake of a decade that they are not provided with better surroundings." He said this time and again, and the people heard him through, but in the end it was the same.

By some he was greatly encouraged. If the gift of the Jew could be extended a year, all would be well, he was sure; but that had been settled.

"I am asking you for assistance, because we have at our disposal three-fourths of the amount necessary; but, without your assistance in this, this three-fourths reverts back to those who have offered it."

"The country is in a bad shape," and they pointed again across the water.

And now he had returned, and had to admit to himself and the others that he had failed. He forgot his own desire; he wanted the association for the great good it would do his people.

He seated himself, and mechanically his eyes sought the clock again. It tick-tocked the minutes away, and the minutes became hours, and every hour drew him near the end. If he could present twenty-five thousand dollars to the Y.M.C.A. by twelve o'clock that night, it would be saved.

Suddenly it occurred to him to go into the street and walk about for a time. Maybe he could forget it. He picked up his hat, that he had thrown on the floor in his absentmindedness, and drawing on his overcoat, made his way thither. It was a crisp night, and the chill, as he struck the street, made him quicken his steps, and he walked briskly in the direction of the river.

He observed with a start, presently, that he was going in the same direction and the same street, he had taken before going north. The incident and the words he had overheard came back to him, and he thought of Mildred with a pang of the heart. "I wish I could see her now," he said; and then, in the next breath, he said no. "I would have to tell her that I had failed, after her kind words. She said I would succeed. Yes, she said that—and meant it." He walked on, and finally fell to talking to himself aloud.

"Yes, Wilson Jacobs, with all you have been through, you have come to this in the end. You've failed." And then something somewhere in his mind said: "Yes, you have failed, but don't despair. All may not be lost. As long as there is life, there is hope." He laughed at this, and wondered then at the strange caprice of the human brain. "Wonderful," he commented. "I wonder how did man ever come to be. In the years when he was wild, that was different. But now he is becoming so wise, that almost miracles are accomplished. He continues to grow wiser as the years go by, until I wonder what it will all come to in the end."

By now he had reached the place where he overheard the voices of a few weeks before. It was dark. Not a soul nor a sound came from within. He stood where he had heard the voices, but no voices came to him that night. He presently retraced his footsteps. He could, at least, be home and comfort his sister. She could not be allowed to be alone while the old year died and the new sprang into being. He dragged himself along in an aimless fashion, not hurrying. As he figured in his mind, he had yet two hours.

When he arrived at the house and entered, he resumed his seat in the study, and, since there was nothing else to do, he resumed his task of watching the clock. Not as much time was left as he thought for. It was now almost eleven. In one hour and a few minutes, it was goodby to seventy-five thousand dollars for the purpose of building and establishing a Y.M.C.A. for the black youth of the city.

He heard Constance in the other room, breathing heavily, and wondered whether she was sick. He watched the clock now as a man who waits for the death knell. Time seemed to go slowly, he thought. He would call his sister when the clock reached a quarter of. Yes, and together they would watch, watch, watch. He dozed off to sleep. Suddenly he awoke with a start. He had slept the old year out, was his first thought. Then he looked at the clock. No, not quite. He rubbed his eyes.

And then he listened. Had he heard someone, or something? "Of course not," he muttered half aloud. "This game is telling on me," and he raised his hand and grasped his head. And still he felt something had happened. He arose and walked back and forth across the room, and then sat down again. As he did so, his eyes saw the clock.

It was now eleven thirty-five.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"See those rocks on yonder hill?" she heard him say, and she allowed her eyes to follow the direction of his finger.

"Yes, and oh Sidney, I gaze each day at them, and at the smaller one just this side of it. Tell me of them, and of the little one, too."

And as they strolled together down this prairie road to the valley of the Ponca, Sidney Wyeth, her husband, told her the story of the two hills.

"Many, I know not how many years ago, yon hill was the scene of many a crime, so the squaws told me." And he sighed, as he seemed to look back over the time. She placed her hand now in the curve of his arm and held it closely. It seemed to satisfy him, and with a glance at her, and a far away look in his eyes, he proceeded to tell the legend of the hills.

"It was before the days of the mighty Sitting Bull, and Red Cloud, too; before the days of the cowboy—and even the squaw man. It was in the days of Chief Stinking Eye, who was the bravest—so the Indians say—of all the great Sioux warriors. Stinking Eye and Chief Bettleyon loved one and the same maiden—the daughter of Chief Go-Catch-The-Enemy.

"Go-Catch-The-Enemy was a great chief, and owned all the land in what is called the Bull Creek district now, while Bettleyon lived with the tribe of his father in a part of this country far to the west, in that part which is now called the Cottonwood Creek district.

"This vast tribe of red men lived by hunting principally; but their women discovered that crops could be grown in this soil, and, with rude plows and hoes, and whatever they had, they dug little patches in the soil along the creek, and in springtime, they planted these patches in maize and beans; so, when the zero weather of winter made the wigwams the most comfortable place, they kept from starving by feeding thereon. Of course, that was in the day when the buffalo was plentiful, and they had meat; but with cornmeal this was made more delicious. So, in this way, the Sioux Indians came through many cold winters, and went to war again in the early springtime; that is, the men did, while the women repeated the task each year, of planting the patches to Squaw corn or maize.

"How they fought, and bled and died, is a matter not trivial. About this time, there came a man. He rode a pony, and he had on boots—not moccasins—and he wore a hat on his head. He carried a rifle in his hand, and that was the first time these red men had seen such a weapon. Strange, as it was to them, he talked fluently in their tongue, and withal his cleverness, he became a favorite among the many. Before long he was, in reality, chief over all. From the Niobrara across the Keya Paha, including the Ponca, the Mastadon, on to the Whetstone and Landing Creek and to the White River, he ruled. They named him Rain-In-The-Face, and he made them all believe that he was next to the great white father.

"There came a day when he made love to Go-Catch-The-Enemy's daughter, Winnetkha, which was her name, and she was said to have been the most beautiful daughter of the Sioux Indians the Rosebud had ever known.

"This, as you might expect, made enemies of Young Chief Bettleyon and also Chief Stinking Eye. But the white man was shrewd. He thought at night, when all was quiet and the Indians slept. So the mornings were used in carrying out the thoughts of the night before, while the Indians had to think of war.

"So, before any knew, the white man had made Winnetkha his own, and took her to live in a real house, that he had made the Indians build for him, of straight ash logs, with bark peeled off and hewn on the inside, until the white wood glistened like silver.

"That was the beginning of the breeds, and after that, many became crossed and have not stopped until recently; but Bettleyon and Stinking Eye never got over it, and when the pale face was spending his time herding the cattle that were now replacing the buffalo, they intrigued cruelly against him.

"Winnetkha overheard their plan, and informed him when he came from the herd that night, and so he kept watch. They came late, with a band of picked men and loyal followers, and began at once to make war on the big house. All night they fought, but the Indians were shrewd this time, and fought from long range. They shot at the house with arrows that were heated red hot on the point, until at last they set it on fire. This, of course, drove the white man and his squaw out. They managed to escape and reached safety ere they were discovered. But the white man was angry, and he swore to have revenge, so, loading his rifle, he saddled his horse and came down single-handed on the Indians and killed many, and routed the rest.

"He was not bothered any more for years afterward, but the Indian, you know, never forgets, so, one day, when he was grazing his herds near the top of the hill, he looked up to find himself almost hemmed in by the skulking red devils. He rushed to safety behind the rocks at the top, where you see them. Here he fought until his ammunition was exhausted, and he was without defense, with the Indians all about him.

"And it was then that he looked about for other weapons of defense, and discovered a den of rattlers. Then, one at a time, he allowed the Indians to approach him, and as they did and went to look for him, they were struck in the face by a rattler. More than twenty were bitten, so 'tis said, and more than half died from the effects. And then they killed him.

"Old Go-Catch-The-Enemy made war on them afterward and a reign of outlawry began; but to the white man, his son-in-law, he gave a great funeral, and did not bury him on a tree top, where buzzards picked the bones, as had been the custom; but the Indians preferred such a burial rather than that a coyote should dig them up from the earth. He was buried on the top of the little hill to the side, as you see, with stones arranged about him, and so deep in the earth, that the wolves never bothered.

"So, that is the legend of those hills that you see, and they are the land mark. Those who live here will not soon forget it."

They stood on the banks of the Ponca now, and listened to the happy birds that filled the air with music like thousands of little bells. As they stood, arm in arm, they appreciated all that life held in store for them.

Suddenly from the west came a great noise. "Hark!" cried the husband. "A prairie fire? Of course not. The settlers made that impossible long since." He looked anxiously in the direction from whence came the noise. The sun could not be seen, and everything at once grew dark. "A tornado!" cried Sidney, and, grabbing his wife, he started to fall to the ground, but too late! A sudden wind seemed to pick him up, and a moment later whirled him into the air, while Mildred cried out in agonizing tones:

"Sidney, Sidney, come back, come back; don't leave me!" But on he flew, with the wind raising him higher and higher into the air, while she moaned until she felt her heart would break. Everything was so dark about her that she could not see, and then, suddenly it began to clear. Darkness was not about her, for overhead burned an electric light. She lay across a bed. She stood up and looked about her.

Her brain throbbed terribly, while she tried to recall where she was, and then slowly it all came back to her. Miss Jones—the visit to the blind tiger—a bottle of coca cola—"Oh, my God!" she cried in piteous tones. "I'm lost! I'm lost! I'm lost!"

She rushed to the door. It was bolted. She paused a moment as she stood by it. Where had he gone! She had a watch on her wrist; she looked at it. She had not been there long. She recalled looking at it just before drinking the stuff in the glass. That was exactly an hour before. It was fully a half hour later when she had been brought to this place. But where was the man.

She looked across the room to a chair. Over the back of it lay the overcoat he had worn. Then it became clear to her. He had stepped out a moment to get something perhaps. She walked to the door quickly and tried the knob. It was locked and the key was gone. She became frantic as she ran around the room. She tried the window again. Useless. Besides, when she peeped under the shade, it was too far to the ground. She stood dumbly for a moment. Presently, mechanically, she walked to a dresser that stood to one side, and peered in the glass at herself. She recoiled when she saw her face. It was swollen, and her eyes looked strange. She could not believe herself. She looked again. "Yes," she whispered, "this is I!" She looked away. The top of the dresser was covered with a newspaper. Mechanically she found herself looking over it. It was not a city paper, she could see, so, somewhat curiously, she turned it over and saw the front page. Her eyes chanced to fall on an article two columns in width. She read a few lines, and then, with a muffled cry, she staggered backward, clutching the paper. She sought the chair or the bed—anything, she was too weak to stand now. But, ere she had reached either, she suddenly stood stiffly erect, while the blood seemed to freeze in her veins.