The man thus turned back went sorrowfully down the steps into the street, and the next man passed in-doors.

“You want a pass for yourself,” said the inner keeper.  “The committee refuse in any circumstances to issue passes to able-bodied men.  If you are able to work, you can earn your fare:  plenty of work for willing hands.  No use in arguing the matter, sir,” he continued resolutely:  “you can’t get a pass.”

“But I haven’t a dollar in the world,” persisted the man.

“Plenty of work at big prices, sir.  Women and children and the sick and helpless we’ll pass out of the city, but we need men, and we won’t pass them out.”

He turned away from the petitioner and beckoned the head woman to enter.  This one had her audience, and came back crying.  Mrs. Lively was now at the head of the line.  Her turn had at last come.

“Session’s over,” announced the keeper, and closed the doors.

Some scores of disconsolate people dispersed in this direction and that.  Mrs. Lively and a few others sat down on the steps, determined to wait for the reopening of the doors.  After a weary waiting in the noon sun, which was not, however, very oppressive, the doors were again opened, and Mrs. Lively was admitted to the audience-room.  At the head of one of the long tables sat George M. Pullman, to whom Mrs. Lively told her small story.  Then she asked for passes to Nauvoo for herself, husband and son.  She was kindly but closely questioned.  Didn’t she save some silver and jewelry? didn’t her husband save his watch? etc. etc.

Mrs. Lively acknowledged it.  “But,” she added, “we haven’t a change of clothes—­we haven’t money enough to keep us in drinking-water.”

“Buy water!” said Mr. Pullman with a decided accent of impatience.  “Don’t talk about buying water with that great lake over there.  Wait till Michigan goes dry.  I’ve brought water with my own hands from Lake Michigan.  Money for water, indeed!”

“So has my husband brought water from the lake,” replied the lady with spirit:  “he brought two pails yesterday morning, and it took him three hours and a half to accomplish it.  I presume your quarters are nearer the lake than ours.”

“Well, well, I can’t give your husband a pass.  He can raise money on his watch, can get a half-fare ticket, or he can work his way out.  We don’t like to see our men turning their backs on Chicago now:  some have to, I suppose.  I ought hardly to give you a pass, but I’ll give you one, and your child;” and he gave the order to the clerk.

In another moment she was on her way to the Chicago, Burlington and Quincy ticket-office to get the pass countersigned.  At three o’clock she reached her quarters with the paper, having been absent seven hours.

As the pass was good for three days only, despatch was necessary in getting matters into shape and in leaving the city.  Dr. Lively pawned his watch—­a fine gold repeater—­for twenty dollars, and the next day, with an aching heart but smiling face, turned his back on the city whose bold challenges, splendid successes and dramatic career made it to him the most fascinating spot, the most dearly loved, this side of heaven.