funny things in them days. And I'm sorry I swore that warrant out and
testified. But I was hot in the collar. I'm cooled down now, an' I'm
sorry I done it."

"You're awfully good and kind," she said, and then began hesitantly on
what was bothering her. "You... you can't stay now, with him... away,
you know."

"Yes; that wouldn't do, would it? I'll tell you: I'll pack up right now,
and skin out, and then, before six o'clock, I'll send a wagon for my
things. Here's the key to the kitchen door."

Much as he demurred, she compelled him to receive back the unexpired
portion of his rent. He shook her hand heartily at leaving, and tried to
get her to promise to call upon him for a loan any time she might be in
need.

"It's all right," he assured her. "I'm married, and got two boys. One of
them's got his lungs touched, and she's with 'em down in Arizona campin'
out. The railroad helped with passes."

And as he went down the steps she wondered that so kind a man should be
in so madly cruel a world.

The Donahue boy threw in a spare evening paper, and Saxon found half a
column devoted to Billy. It was not nice. The fact that he had stood
up in the police court with his eyes blacked from some other fray
was noted. He was described as a bully, a hoodlum, a rough-neck, a
professional slugger whose presence in the ranks was a disgrace to
organized labor. The assault he had pleaded guilty of was atrocious and
unprovoked, and if he were a fair sample of a striking teamster, the
only wise thing for Oakland to do was to break up the union and drive
every member from the city. And, finally, the paper complained at the
mildness of the sentence. It should have been six months at least. The
judge was quoted as expressing regret that he had been unable to impose
a six months' sentence, this inability being due to the condition of
the jails, already crowded beyond capacity by the many eases of assault
committed in the course of the various strikes.

That night, in bed, Saxon experienced her first loneliness. Her brain
seemed in a whirl, and her sleep was broken by vain gropings for the
form of Billy she imagined at her side. At last, she lighted the lamp
and lay staring at the ceiling, wide-eyed, conning over and over the
details of the disaster that had overwhelmed her. She could forgive, and
she could not forgive. The blow to her love-life had been too savage,
too brutal. Her pride was too lacerated to permit her wholly to return
in