s. Hooven looked about her at the endless
blocks of buildings, the endless procession of vehicles in the streets,
the endless march of pedestrians on the sidewalks. Where was Minna;
where was she and her baby to sleep that night? How was Hilda to be fed?

She could not stand still. There was no place to sit down; but one thing
was left, walk.

Ah, that via dolorosa of the destitute, that chemin de la croix of the
homeless. Ah, the mile after mile of granite pavement that MUST be, MUST
be traversed. Walk they must. Move, they must; onward, forward, whither
they cannot tell; why, they do not know. Walk, walk, walk with bleeding
feet and smarting joints; walk with aching back and trembling knees;
walk, though the senses grow giddy with fatigue, though the eyes droop
with sleep, though every nerve, demanding rest, sets in motion its tiny
alarm of pain. Death is at the end of that devious, winding maze of
paths, crossed and re-crossed and crossed again. There is but one goal
to the via dolorosa; there is no escape from the central chamber of that
labyrinth. Fate guides the feet of them that are set therein. Double on
their steps though they may, weave in and out of the myriad corners of
the city's streets, return, go forward, back, from side to side, here,
there, anywhere, dodge, twist, wind, the central chamber where Death
sits is reached inexorably at the end.

Sometimes leading and sometimes carrying Hilda, Mrs. Hooven set off
upon her objectless journey. Block after block she walked, street after
street. She was afraid to stop, because of the policemen. As often as
she so much as slackened her pace, she was sure to see one of these
terrible figures in the distance, watching her, so it seemed to her,
waiting for her to halt for the fraction of a second, in order that he
might have an excuse to arrest her.

Hilda fretted incessantly.

"Mammy, where're we gowun? Mammy, I'm tired." Then, at last, for the
first time, that plaint that stabbed the mother's heart:

"Mammy, I'm hungry."

"Be qui-ut, den," said Mrs. Hooven. "Bretty soon we'll hev der subber."

Passers-by on the sidewalk, men and women in the great six o'clock
homeward march, jostled them as they went along. With dumb, dull
curiousness, she looked into one after another of the limitless stream
of faces, and she fancied she saw in them every emotion but pity. The
faces were gay, were anxious, were sorrowful, were mirthful, were lined
with thought, or were m