Well, as he rode away I sot down and begin to think. Here I was, a old woman, set out in the big road by the Law—put out of the house we had paid $3,800 towards; the house empty, and now comes the Law and orders me to even git away from where the Law had put me. What to do I dident know. I jist sot there a cryin and helpless, when I heerd wagons comin down the road. I looked up, and there come two wagons and four men down the hill. They drove up and stopped, and there was Tom Osborne, and Charley McGlinchey, and that fat black-smith, and Jones the baker, all from Mineral Pint. They had come to move me. Tom Osborne had went home the night before and told them about me bein put out in the big road, and they went together and got teams and come and moved me to town here. They seemed to be nice, kind men, but talked like them Populists. They dident talk much to me, but I heerd them talkin to each other, sayin: “Its a shame,” “a disgrace to civilization,” “wrong,” “wouldent be if the people could borrow money from the government like they do in Switzerland,” and all sich. They even said: “The time haint fur off when it can be done, and the likes of this wont be.” And then they said a good deal agin the money power and polerticians, and sich, until I was glad Jobe wasent there to flare up. I was glad he wasent there, though Ide give the world to know where he is, or to have him with me. Well, they brought me to town and rented me this house here at 1412 West Front Street, and paid the rent for a month; then two of them drove off, and soon brought me a load of coal. While them two were gone for the coal the other two set up my stove, and fixed up my bed, and set things around in pretty good shape for men; then, wishin me good luck, and hopin Jobe would soon git work and I would git to go to him, they drove off. They all looked pityin like as they left. I went to the post-office the next mornin to tell them I had changed my place of livin. I got this letter from Jobe. It jist seems there is no end of trouble for the people who are poor. Poor Jobe, how my heart bleeds for him. Here is his letter. Read it for yourself: JOBE’S SECOND LETTER. CLEVELAND WORK-HOUSE, CLEVELAND, O., March 5, 1896. _To Betsy Gaskins._ MY DEAR WIFE AND ONLY FRIEND:—I am here in this prison—put here by the law. God only knows my feelins. I am not a criminal. Ive done no wrong. Betsy, don’t blame me. Pity me. I am a old man. I have worked hard. Ive been honest. Ive tried to do right. To-day I am in prison, wearin stripes. I was hungry. I had no money. I asked for bread. They arrested me. [Illustration]