She watched them recede down the narrow asphalt of the parkway. At eleven o'clock, to lessen her stiffening of joints, she walked twice the circumference of the fenced-in inclosure, finally sitting again, this time beneath a gaunt oleander that was heavy with bud. "O God!" she kept repeating, her stress growing. "O God! God! God!" With the lateness, footfalls were growing more and more audible, the gong of a street-car sounding out three blocks down. "O my God!" And then in rapid succession, closing her eyes and digging her finger-nails into her palms: "Mamma! Mamma! Mamma!" She wanted and wanted to cry, but her throat would not let her, and so she sat and sat. There were still occasional figures moving through the little lanes and a couple or two deep in the obscurity of benches. After another while, at the remote end of her own bench, a figure sat down, lighting a pipe. She watched him pu-pu-pup. At half after eleven she slid along the bench. "Where you goin'?" He turned to look down. "Eh?" "Where you goin'?" "No place." "I'm cold." "Pu-pu-pup." "I am." "Pu-pu-pup." She leaned around, trying to bring her face to front his and to lift her nose to a little wrinkly smile. "Aw, you!" "Go home and go to bed," he said. "A nice-appearin' girl like you ought to be ashamed." "I--ain't." "Run along." "Where?" "You're barkin' up the wrong tree." She fell silent. A chill raced through her. "O God!" she began, under her breath. "O God! God!" Then: "Mamma! Mamma! Mamma!" "You _are_ cold," he said, reaching out to pinch her jacket sleeve. "That's a warm coat. Where do you live?" "Lemme alone," she said, staring out before her as if she were seeing the stripe and vine, stripe and vine. "You got the shivers," he said. "Better go home." "Lemme alone." "Ain't there no way you girls can learn to behave yourselves? Here"--digging down into his pocket--"here." "No." "Where you live?" "I dunno. I dunno." "You surely know where you live." She looked up at him in one of the rare moments of opening wide her eyes. "I tell you I dunno." "What's in there?" "My--my clothes." "Let's see." She plucked at the knot, drawing back for him to lean to see the top layer of neatly folded waist. "Don't," she said, withdrawing it quickly from his touch. "Why," he said, "you poor little kid! What's got you into this mess?" At that in his voice, such a quick, a thick, a hot layer of tears sprang to her eyes that she could not relax her throat for words. "What got you in?" "I--I--I dunno." "Aw, now, yes, you do know. Try to think--take your time--what got you in?" "I--I--can't--" "Yes, you can. Go on; I ain't lookin' at you." He turned off to an angle. Her first sob burst from her, tearing her throat and ending in a tremolo of moans in her throat. "Now, now," he said, still in profile; "that won't do. Not for a sensible little girl like you. Easy--easy--take your time--"