"What is your business?"

"Car builder," said Sebastian.

"And what do you do?" he questioned, addressing Gerhardt.

"I am watchman at Miller's furniture factory."

"Um," said the court, feeling that Sebastian's attitude remained sullen and contentious. "Well, this young man might be let off on the coal-stealing charge, but he seems to be somewhat too free with his fists. Columbus is

altogether too rich in that sort of thing. Ten dollars."

"If you please," began Gerhardt, but the court officer was already pushing him away.

"I don't want to hear any more about it," said the judge. "He's stubborn, anyhow. What's the next case?"

Gerhardt made his way over to his boy, abashed and yet very glad it was

no worse. Somehow, he thought, he could raise the money. Sebastian

looked at him solicitously as he came forward.

"It's all right," said Bass soothingly. "He didn't give me half a chance to say anything."

"I'm only glad it wasn't more," said Gerhardt nervously. "We will try and get the money."

Going home to his wife, Gerhardt informed the troubled household of the

result. Mrs. Gerhardt stood white and yet relieved, for ten dollars seemed something that might be had. Jennie heard the whole story with open

mouth and wide eyes. It was a terrible blow to her. Poor Bass! He was

always so lively and good-natured. It seemed awful that he should be in

jail.

Gerhardt went hurriedly to Hammond's fine residence, but he was not in

the city. He thought then of a lawyer by the name of Jenkins, whom he

knew in a casual way, but Jenkins was not at his office. There were

several grocers and coal merchants whom he knew well enough, but he

owed them money. Pastor Wundt might let him have it, but the agony

such a disclosure to that worthy would entail held him back. He did call

on one or two acquaintances, but these, surprised at the unusual and

peculiar request, excused themselves. At four o'clock he returned home,

weary and exhausted.

"I don't know what to do," he said despairingly. "If I could only think."

Jennie thought of Brander, but the situation had not accentuated her

desperation to the point where she could brave her father's opposition and his terrible insult to the Senator, so keenly remembered, to go and ask.

Her watch had been pawned a second time, and she had no other means

of obtaining money.

The family council lasted until half-past ten, but still there was nothing decided. Mrs. Gerhardt persistently and monotonously turned one hand

over in the other and stared at the floor. Gerhardt ran his hand through his reddish brown hair distractedly. "It's no use," he said at last. "I can't think of anything."

"Go to bed, Jennie," said her mother solicitously; "get the others to go.

There's no use their sitting up. I may think of something. You go to bed."

Jennie went to her room, but the very thought of repose was

insupportable. She had read in the paper, shortly after her father's quarrel with the Senator, that the latter had departed for Washington. There had

been no notice of his return. Still he might be in the city. She stood before a short, narrow mirror that surmounted a shabby bureau, thinking. Her

sister Veronica, with whom she slept, was already composing herself to

dreams. Finally a grim resolution fixed itself in her consciousness. She

would go and see Senator Brander. If HE were in town he would help

Bass. Why shouldn't she—he loved her. He had asked over and over to

marry her. Why should she not go and ask him for help?

She hesitated a little while, then hearing Veronica breathing regularly, she put on her hat and jacket, and noiselessly opened the door into the sitting-room to see if any one were stirring.

There was no sound save that of Gerhardt rocking nervously to and fro in

the kitchen. There was no light save that of her own small room-lamp and

a gleam from under the kitchen door. She turned and blew the former out

—then slipped quietly to the front door, opened it and stepped out into the night.

A waning moon was shining, and a hushed sense of growing life filled the

air, for it was nearing spring again. As Jennie hurried along the shadowy streets—the arc light had not yet been invented— she had a sinking sense

of fear; what was this rash thing she was about to do? How would the

Senator receive her? What would he think? She stood stock-still,

wavering and doubtful; then the recollection of Bass in his night cell

came over her again, and she hurried on.

The character of the Capitol Hotel was such that it was not difficult for a woman to find ingress through the ladies' entrance to the various floors of the hotel at any hour of the night. The hotel, not unlike many others of the time, was in no sense loosely conducted, but its method of supervision in places was lax. Any person could enter, and, by applying at a rear

entrance to the lobby, gain the attention of the clerk. Otherwise not much notice was taken of those who came and went.

When she came to the door it was dark save for a low light burning in the entry-way. The distance to the Senator's room was only a short way along

the hall of the second floor. She hurried up the steps, nervous and pale, but giving no other outward sign of the storm that was surging within her.

When she came to his familiar door she paused; she feared that she might

not find him in his room; she trembled again to think that he might be

there. A light shone through the transom, and, summoning all her

courage, she knocked. A man coughed and bestirred himself.

His surprise as he opened the door knew no bounds. "Why, Jennie!" he exclaimed. "How delightful! I was thinking of you. Come in— come in."

He welcomed her with an eager embrace.

"I was coming out to see you, believe me, I was. I was thinking all along how I could straighten this matter out. And now you come. But what's the

trouble?"

He held her at arm's length and studied her distressed face. The fresh

beauty of her seemed to him like cut lilies wet with dew.

He felt a great surge of tenderness.

"I have something to ask you," she at last brought herself to say. "My brother is in jail. We need ten dollars to get him out, and I didn't know where else to go."

"My poor child!" he said, chafing her hands. "Where else should you go?

Haven't I told you always to come to me? Don't you know, Jennie, I

would do anything in the world for you?"

"Yes," she gasped.

"Well, then, don't worry about that any more. But won't fate ever cease striking at you, poor child? How did your brother come to get in jail?"

"They caught him throwing coal down from the cars," she replied.

"Ah!" he replied, his sympathies touched and awakened. Here was this boy arrested and fined for what fate was practically driving him to do.

Here was this girl pleading with him at night, in his room, for what to her was a great necessity—ten dollars; to him, a mere nothing. "I will arrange about your brother," he said quickly. "Don't worry. I can get him out in half an hour. You sit here now and be comfortable until I return."

He waved her to his easy-chair beside a large lamp, and hurried out of the room.

Brander knew the sheriff who had personal supervision of the county jail.

He knew the judge who had administered the fine. It was but a five