"Well," said the doctor, as he drove rapidly away, "we're well out
of that. I was just figuring what sort of hold would be most fatal
to the old lady when you interposed."

"Poor thing!" said Mrs. French. "They're very fond of their
children, these Galicians, and they're so suspicious of us.
They don't know any better."

As they passed Paulina's house, the little girl Irma ran out from
the door.

"My mother want you very bad," she said to Mrs. French.

"Tell her I'll come in this afternoon," said Mrs. French.

"She want you now," replied Irma, with such a look of anxiety upon
her face that Mrs. French was constrained to say, "Wait one moment,
Doctor. I'll see what it is. I shall not keep you."

She ran into the house, followed by the little girl. The room was
full of men who stood about in stolid but not unsympathetic
silence, gazing upon Paulina, who appeared to be prostrated with
grief. Beside her stood the lad Kalman, the picture of desolation.

"What is it?" cried Mrs. French, running to her. "Tell me what is
the matter."

Irma told the story. Early that morning they had gone to the jail,
but after waiting for hours they were refused admission by the guard.