But one night, instead of the usual cheerful stir about the house, she found the Swede girl alone in the kitchen, weeping over the potatoes. To Pauline’s inquiries she returned a burst of woe. “They all tooken to chail—all!” she wailed. “I don’t know what to do if I get supper. The mans come, the police mans, and tooken them all away. _I hela verlden!_ who ever know such a country? Such nice peoples sent to chail for play on the organ—their own organ! They say they not play right, but I think to send to chail for not play right on the organ that sha’n’t be right!” Pauline could make nothing more out of her; but the man on the corner looked in at one particularly dolorous burst of sobs over poor Tim and poor Petey and tendered his version: “They’ve gone, sure enough, miss. Your sisters have had them arrested for keeping and committing a nuisance. Now, I ain’t stuck on their organ-playing, as a general rule, myself, but I wouldn’t go so far as to call it a nuisance. But the Fullers ain’t on the best of terms; old Fuller is a crank, and there’s politics between him and Armstrong and the Delaneys, who have just moved into the neighborhood, mother and daughter—very musical folks, they say, and nervous; they have joined in with your sister—” “Where have they gone?” asked Pauline, who was very pale. “To the police court. They were mighty cunning, if you’ll excuse me, miss. They picked out that old German crank, Von Reibnitz, who plays in the Schubert Quartet, and loves music better than beer.”