cketing with her."

A great change came over Joe's face, as if he beheld a miracle.

"Myra! So you have been picketing!"

Her face went very white.

"Don't! Don't!" she breathed painfully, sinking in a chair. "I was a
coward, Joe--I didn't do anything to help her!"

"But what could you do?"

"Oh, something, anything."

He glanced at her keenly, and a swift smile lit his features. He spoke
very gently.

"Myra, you step in back to my mother. Take supper with her. Keep her
company. I'm afraid I'm neglecting mother these days."

"And the Night Court?" Myra was swallowing sobs.

"I'll look in for you at nine o'clock."

"Thank you," she whispered. "Oh, thank you."

It was something that he thought her worthy.

IX

RHONA

When the policeman with Rhona and Blondy passed up the steps between the
green lamps of the new station-house, they found themselves in a long
room whose warmth was a fine relief. They breathed more easily, loosened
their coats, and then stepped forward. A police sergeant sat behind a
railing, writing at a low desk, a low-hanging, green-shaded electric
bulb above him.

Rhona felt that she had to speak quickly and get in her word before the
others. She tried to be calm, but a dull sob went with the words.

"That man struck me--knocked me down. I've had him arrested."

The sergeant did not look up. He went on writing. Finally he spoke,
easily:

"True, Officer?"

The policeman cleared his throat.

"The other way round, Sergeant. _She_ struck the _man_."

Rhona breathed hard, a feeling in her breast of her heart breaking. She
gasped:

"That's not true. He struck me--he struck me."

The sergeant glanced up.

"What's your name?"

Rhona could not answer for a moment. Then, faintly:

"Rhona Hemlitz."

"Age?"

"Seventeen."

"Address?"

"---- Hester Street."

"Occupation?"

"Shirtwaist-maker."

"Oh!" he whistled slightly. "Striker?"

"Yes."

"Picketing?"

"Yes."

"Held for Night Court trial. Lock her up, Officer."

Blackness closed over the girl's brain. She thought she was going into
hysterics. Her one thought was that she must get help, that she must
reach some one who knew her. She burst out:

"I want to telephone."

"To who?"

"Mr. Blaine--Mr. Blaine!"

"West Tenth Street feller?"

"Yes."

The sergeant winked to the policeman.

"Oh, the matron'll see to that! Hey, Officer?"

Rhona felt her arm seized, and then had a sense of being dragged