She heard with a sinking heart and went home to her own room to walk the floor all night and sob.

In the morning, with all her Christmas savings tied up in a handkerchief, she hurried down to Jefferson Market court room.  There was a full blotter that morning, and the Judge was rushing through with it.  He wanted to get home to his Christmas dinner.  But he paused long enough when he got to Jimmy’s case to deliver a brief but stern lecture upon the evil of child-gambling in New York.  He said that as it was Christmas Day he would like to release the prisoner with a reprimand, but he thought that this had been done too often and that it was high time to make an example of one of the offenders.

Well, it was fine or imprisonment.  ’Liza Ann struggled up through the crowd of spectators and her Christmas treasure added to what Jimmy had, paid his fine and they went out of the court room together.

When they were in their room again she put the boy to bed, for there was no fire and no coal to make one.  Then she wrapped herself in a shabby shawl and sat huddled up over the empty stove.

Down in the alley she heard the voice of the day before singing: 

    “Oh, darkies, how my heart grows weary,
      Far from the old folks at home.”

And she burst into tears.

A MESS OF POTTAGE

It was because the Democratic candidate for Governor was such an energetic man that he had been able to stir Little Africa, which was a Republican stronghold, from centre to circumference.  He was a man who believed in carrying the war into the enemy’s country.  Instead of giving them a chance to attack him, he went directly into their camp, leaving discontent and disaffection among their allies.  He believed in his principles.  He had faith in his policy for the government of the State, and, more than all, he had a convincing way of making others see as he saw.

No other Democrat had ever thought it necessary to assail the stronghold of Little Africa.  He had merely put it into his forecast as “solidly against,” sent a little money to be distributed desultorily in the district, and then left it to go its way, never doubting what that way would be.  The opposing candidates never felt that the place was worthy of consideration, for as the Chairman of the Central Committee said, holding up his hand with the fingers close together:  “What’s the use of wasting any speakers down there?  We’ve got ’em just like that.”

It was all very different with Mr. Lane.

“Gentlemen,” he said to the campaign managers, “that black district must not be ignored.  Those people go one way because they are never invited to go another.”

“Oh, I tell you now, Lane,” said his closest friend, “it’ll be a waste of material to send anybody down there.  They simply go like a flock of sheep, and nothing is going to turn them.”