le handful of dimes and nickels, was in her trunk, and her
trunk was in the hands of the landlady. Minna had been allowed such
reprieve as her thirty-five cents would purchase. The destitution of
Mrs. Hooven and her little girl had begun from the very moment of her
eviction.

While she waited for Minna, watching every street car and every
approaching pedestrian, a policeman appeared, asked what she did, and,
receiving no satisfactory reply, promptly moved her on.

Minna had had little assurance in facing the life struggle of the city.
Mrs. Hooven had absolutely none. In her, grief, distress, the pinch of
poverty, and, above all, the nameless fear of the turbulent, fierce life
of the streets, had produced a numbness, an embruted, sodden, silent,
speechless condition of dazed mind, and clogged, unintelligent speech.
She was dumb, bewildered, stupid, animated but by a single impulse. She
clung to life, and to the life of her little daughter Hilda, with the
blind tenacity of purpose of a drowning cat.

Thus, when ordered to move on by the officer, she had silently obeyed,
not even attempting to explain her situation. She walked away to the
next street-crossing. Then, in a few moments returned, taking up her
place on the corner near the boarding-house, spying upon the approaching
cable cars, peeping anxiously down the length of the sidewalks.

Once more, the officer ordered her away, and once more, unprotesting,
she complied. But when for the third time the policeman found her on
the forbidden spot, he had lost his temper. This time when Mrs. Hooven
departed, he had followed her, and when, bewildered, persistent, she had
attempted to turn back, he caught her by the shoulder.

"Do you want to get arrested, hey?" he demanded. "Do you want me to lock
you up? Say, do you, speak up?"

The ominous words at length reached Mrs. Hooven's comprehension.
Arrested! She was to be arrested. The countrywoman's fear of the Jail
nipped and bit eagerly at her unwilling heels. She hurried off, thinking
to return to her post after the policeman should have gone away. But
when, at length, turning back, she tried to find the boarding-house, she
suddenly discovered that she was on an unfamiliar street. Unwittingly,
no doubt, she had turned a corner. She could not retrace her steps. She
and Hilda were lost.

"Mammy, I'm tired," Hilda complained.

Her mother picked her up.

"Mammy, where're we gowun, mammy?"

Where, indeed? Stupefied, Mr