It was he--and he never knew what had started her on this strange journey. She now recalled--or tried to recall why. And then after a time she knew. Yes. She loved Sidney Wyeth, and it was that which had made the difference. But what kind of love was this that had no hope? And yet did she not hope? As she lay with the hot air floating in upon her, she gazed out into the street, where a dozen or so little black boys played. She thought, with her mind idly drifting, and she saw these boys as men, in her idle fancy. They gathered presently in a circle, and when she watched them in her half-conscious, half-waking manner for a few minutes, she saw they were shooting craps. Think of it! These boys, ranging in years from eight to twelve. And they were already engaged in that demoralizing pastime. She trembled with sorrow as she watched the game proceed. Soon she saw that an argument of some kind had come up. They became very demonstrative, and while this was going on, suddenly, from a remote direction, a blue-coated policeman appeared upon the scene. There was a scramble and they flew in many directions. All escaped, with the exception of one. He was a cripple, and as he tried to hobble away, the burly cop swooped down upon him. He grasped him, without regard for his infirmity, and disappeared up the street, dragging the cripple with him. And that was a common occurrence in this city. Hundreds of young men--boys--were started on a career of crime by premeditated arrests. They were often placed in jail when they were so young, that it was a tragedy. When they came out--for the courts could not bring themselves to sentence below a certain age--they were then pointed at as having "been in jail." And since they had the name, they often thereafter diligently sought the game. As the policeman passed up the street with the pitiful cripple, she rushed to the window to look after him. A little boy stuck his head through a broken fence, and she heard him say, as they went by: "Uh! 'es got 'im a nigga!" Mildred stretched herself upon the bed again; but her thoughts were now of something else. The Y.M.C.A. and Wilson Jacobs. At this same hour last Sunday, she had been with him in his effort--his great effort. And the need of such an effort had just been demonstrated a few minutes before, almost beneath her very eyes. There was no place to go; no place, as a rule, where young men would go, and this helped to make it so bad. Young men will play pool, some of them, and they will seek some kind of diversion, other than the church. Their natures call for these things, and she knew it. Since freedom, the Negro has not been sufficiently practical to appreciate this point of view. Plenty of churches are available, and services are held all day Sunday. And it is easy, so easy, to say they ought to go--everybody _ought_ to go. But _does_ everybody go? _Would_ everybody go? And the most discouraging part of it is that _everybody does_ not go.