"How old is the baby?" "Three months and ten days." She had counted the child's age. She had thought enough for that. "How far is Pineyville?" "I doan' know. It took mos' all night to git here." There was no change in the listless monotone. "Are you going out now?" "Yes, soon's I kin git ready." "How are you going to get home?" "Walk, I reckon." There was no complaint in her tone, no sudden exhibition of any suffering. She was only stating facts. "Have you no money?" "No." Same bald statement, and in the same hopeless tone. She had not moved--not even to look at the child. "What's the fare?" "Six dollars and sixty-five cents." This was stated with great exactness. It was the amount of this appalling sum that had, no doubt, crushed out her last ray of hope. "Did you sell any whiskey?" "Yes, I tol' the Judge so." Still no break in her voice. It was only another statement. "Oh! you kept a saloon?" "No." "How did you sell it, then?" "Jest out of a kag--in a cup." "Had you ever sold any before?" "No." "Why did you sell it, then?" She had been looking into my face all this time, one thin, begrimed hand--the one with the ring on it--tight around the steel bar of the gate that divided us. With the question, her eyes dropped until they seemed to rest on this hand. The answer came slowly: "The baby come, and the store wouldn't chalk nothin' for us no more." Then she added, quickly, as if in defence of the humiliating position, "Our corn-crib was sot afire last fall and we got behind." For a brief instant she leaned heavily against the bars as if for support, then her eyes sought her child. I waited until she had reassured herself of its safety, and continued my questions, my finger-nails sinking deeper all the time into the palms of my hands. "Did you make the whiskey?" "No, it was Martin Young's whiskey. My husband works for him. Martin sent the kag down one day, and I sold it to the men. I give the money all to Martin 'cept the dollar he was to gimme for sellin' it." "How came you to be arrested?" "One o' the men tol' on me 'cause I wouldn't trust him. Martin tol' me not to let 'em have it 'thout they paid." "How long have you been here?" "Three months next Tuesday." "That baby only two weeks old when they arrested you?" My blood ran hot and cold, and my collar seemed five sizes too small, but I still held on to myself. "Yes." The answer was given in the same monotonous, listless voice--not a trace of indignation over the outrage. Women with suckling babies had no rights that anybody was bound to respect--not up in Pineyville; certainly not the gentlemen with brass shields under the lapels of their coats and Uncle Sam's commissions in their pockets. It was the law of the land--why find fault with it? I leaned closer so that I could touch her hand if need be. "What's your name?" "Samanthy North." "What's your husband's name?"