Part 7 (1/2)

He hastened out of the hotel, feeling that every eye was upon him, every finger pointing at him, every tongue whispering, ”There goes Joe Hamilton, whose father went to the penitentiary the other day.”

What should he do? He could try no more. He was proscribed, and the letters of his ban were writ large throughout the town, where all who ran might read. For a while he wandered aimlessly about and then turned dejectedly homeward. His mother had not yet come.

”Did you get a job?” was Kit's first question.

”No,” he answered bitterly, ”no one wants me now.”

”No one wants you? Why, Joe--they--they don't think hard of us, do they?”

”I don't know what they think of ma and you, but they think hard of me, all right.”

”Oh, don't you worry; it 'll be all right when it blows over.”

”Yes, when it all blows over; but when 'll that be?”

”Oh, after a while, when we can show 'em we 're all right.”

Some of the girl's cheery hopefulness had come back to her in the presence of her brother's dejection, as a woman always forgets her own sorrow when some one she loves is grieving. But she could not communicate any of her feeling to Joe, who had been and seen and felt, and now sat darkly waiting his mother's return. Some presentiment seemed to tell him that, armed as she was with money to pay for what she wanted and asking for nothing without price, she would yet have no better tale to tell than he.

None of these forebodings visited the mind of Kit, and as soon as her mother appeared on the threshold she ran to her, crying, ”Oh, where are we going to live, ma?”

Fannie looked at her for a moment, and then answered with a burst of tears, ”Gawd knows, child, Gawd knows.”

The girl stepped back astonished. ”Why, why!” and then with a rush of tenderness she threw her arms about her mother's neck. ”Oh, you 're tired to death,” she said; ”that 's what 's the matter with you. Never mind about the house now. I 've got some tea made for you, and you just take a cup.”

Fannie sat down and tried to drink her tea, but she could not. It stuck in her throat, and the tears rolled down her face and fell into the shaking cup. Joe looked on silently. He had been out and he understood.

”I 'll go out to-morrow and do some looking around for a house while you stay at home an' rest, ma.”

Her mother looked up, the maternal instinct for the protection of her daughter at once aroused. ”Oh, no, not you, Kitty,” she said.

Then for the first time Joe spoke: ”You 'd just as well tell Kitty now, ma, for she 's got to come across it anyhow.”

”What you know about it? Whaih you been to?”

”I 've been out huntin' work. I 've been to Jones's bahbah shop an' to the Continental Hotel.” His light-brown face turned brick red with anger and shame at the memory of it. ”I don't think I 'll try any more.”

Kitty was gazing with wide and saddening eyes at her mother.

”Were they mean to you too, ma?” she asked breathlessly.

”Mean? Oh Kitty! Kitty! you don't know what it was like. It nigh killed me. Thaih was plenty of houses an' owned by people I 've knowed fu'

yeahs, but not one of 'em wanted to rent to me. Some of 'em made excuses 'bout one thing er t' other, but de res' come right straight out an'

said dat we 'd give a neighbourhood a bad name ef we moved into it. I 've almos' tramped my laigs off. I 've tried every decent place I could think of, but n.o.body wants us.”

The girl was standing with her hands clenched nervously before her. It was almost more than she could understand.

”Why, we ain't done anything,” she said. ”Even if they don't know any better than to believe that pa was guilty, they know we ain't done anything.”

”I 'd like to cut the heart out of a few of 'em,” said Joe in his throat.