last week on the machine," and with changed attitude: "What do you bother me for? Go upstairs and see her—third floor back left." She re-entered her apartment. I walked up the three floors. At the door I stood a little and thought how I should behave. "Who's there?" a voice asked. "Sewing machine agent," I answered, timidly.

"Come next week—I have no money," was the reply. "Excuse me. I can't open the door for you now. I am not dressed, Mr. George."

I went downstairs and in the hall I noted down everything that the janitress had told me. Five children, no coal, no food, $11.50 rent, and so on.

My next address was in Henry Street.

It was one of the coldest days of the winter of 1911. The snow was knee-deep and the icy wind blew at a terrific speed. The house where I had to go was one of those old, decrepit buildings, where misery lurks and peers at one from every door, every brick, windowpane, nail and knob. The windows were covered with a coat of ice. Some broken panes were stuffed with pillows and rags. On the ground floor was a grocery. "They surely buy their provisions here," I thought, and entered the store. An old woman, the storekeeper, asked me what I wanted.

"Could you give me any information about the family S.," I asked.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, "you are from the Gerry Society, aren't you?"

"Well?" I said nonchalantly. "What of it?"

"Well—it's all a lie, that's what I could tell you. The poor woman does her best. Why! she works herself to death. A widow with three small children—a fine woman, a good mother, a real lady, if you want to know. But her neighbour, the rag pedlar's wife, is jealous. I don't know why! And she did it. Why should you take away the children from a mother? She feeds them well. The children haven't good clothes! Well, she is a poor woman and children are children. They wear, they tear; what can she do? Buy every day new clothes? A poor widow that works from early morning till late at night!"

"What is the name of the rag pedlar?" I asked the woman.

"Goldberg," she informed me. "A bad woman, without a mother's heart. Don't go to her. She'll tell you a lot of bad things about the poor widow. Don't go to her, Mister. Oh! that such beings should be alive at all!" she muttered in Yiddish.

"I have to," I assured her, and after inquiring the floor where Mrs. Goldberg lived I walked up the three flights. I knocked at the door.

"Come in," came the answer. Mrs. Goldberg opened the door, and as I entered the cheerful aspect of a tidy kitchen and the singing of the boiling pots on the stove greeted me invitingly. Mrs. Goldberg bade me enter their "front room," furnished pretentiously. I sat down at her invitation, and contrary to all rules on such occasions I waited for her to start the discussion—I hardly knew what to say. I did not have to wait long. Mrs. Goldberg immediately asked me if I was an agent from the Gerry Society.

"But what have you against that poor woman? Why do you want her children taken away? Are you not a mother? Have you no feeling? What is it? Have you a personal grievance against the woman?" I said in the tone to invite confidences.

"But just because I am a mother," she snapped back angrily, her eyes flashing. "Come here," she said, making a sign for me to follow her. I followed her into a third room. A boy of about six years was in a bed. His face was burning with fever. Around his neck he had bandages, and on a small table were a dozen bottles of medicine.

"Well, what has that to do with it?" I queried.

"This is my only child," she explained. I did not understand what connection there was between her sick child and the desire to put the children of the other mother away. I told her so, energetically, almost insolently.

"You see," she explained, "her children are always running around half naked and barefooted, even in the coldest weather. They are always sick, but she does not care, because when this is so she runs to all the charitable societies and gets help and medicine. The children play in the hall the whole day, and whenever her child has a sore throat three or four other children catch it. Last year two children caught diphtheria in this house. Both children died. When my child gets sick I have to pay for medicine and the doctor and everything. If she can't take care of her children, let her not have any—that's all. Each one for himself," she added; "I have to take care of my children."

"But," I argued, "are you not a mother? What can the poor woman do?"

Mrs. Goldberg's eyes flashed, and with the assurance well-fed people generally have, she answered: "Oh! never mind! I would know how to take care of my children! There would be no charity business with me. Oh, no! I assure you!"

"She is a widow with small children," I pleaded. "What would you do in her place?"

"Oh, never mind. I would do something—anything—everything. My child will always have enough to eat and some clothes, as long as I live," and as she looked at the sick child she rolled up her sleeves as though ready to start a fight against the whole world to defend her child from want and misery.

I departed, first assuring Mrs. Goldberg that something would be done to "protect her child," and went up another flight to see Mrs. S.

The grocery woman had probably announced the fact that the "Gerry Society man" was in the house, for as I passed through the hall many a door opened and closed. Some of the women eyed me as though I were a murderer, while others looked at me as though I were something mysterious—a man who had the power of parting children from the mother. My position was not a very pleasant one. I thought of what I should do if the real "Gerry Society man" were to appear on the scene. I hastened towards Mrs. S.'s door. A few old women followed behind me. I knocked. A timid "Come in." As I opened the door I saw two small children, one probably six and the other four years old, hiding under the table. My heart contracted. Mrs. S. stood in front of the table, hiding the children, her open hands like the claws of a tigress, ready to defend her offspring. We looked at one another, mutely, for a few moments. Her eyes were sparkling with the fire of an injured animal, her hair was dishevelled, her brows were knit together in a supreme decision, her mouth twitched, and she was pale, pale as a waxen figure. From under the table the two children looked at me fearfully.

"Are you Mrs. S.?" I finally stammered out, while I took out my notebook.

No answer.

"Are you Mrs. S.?" I repeated again, as I regained my composure.

"Don't take away my children, Mister. Don't take away my children," the poor mother yelled and growing hysterical she repeated this terrible cry in heartrending tones, tearing her hair. "Don't take them away."

The poor tots came out from under the table. Quickly she pushed them back, and continued to cry at the top of her voice the same sentence: "Don't take away my children. They are mine, mine. My God, they are mine."

"I don't want to take your children away, madam," I told her repeatedly. "Calm yourself, I did not come to take them away." But she did not listen to me. She kept on crying and tearing her hair. Neighbours came in from all sides.

"Help, help," Mrs. S. cried. "Help, help, mothers! He wants to take away my children. Help, help!" and she ran to the window.

I gently laid my hands on the hysterical mother's shoulders, and looking straight in her eyes I said slowly and distinctly:

"I—don't—want—to—take—your