Saddened and pensive, he passed on, still thinking of the woman he could not banish from his mind, despite his bitterness against her class.

So he walked on and on, now through better streets and now through worse, up and down the city.

Here and there, detonations and red fire marked the impatience of some demonstrator who could not wait till midnight to show his ardent patriotism and his public spirit by risking life and property.  The saloons were all doing a land-office business, with the holiday impending and the thermometer at 97.  Now and then, slattern women, in foul clothes and with huge, gelatinous breasts, could be seen rushing the growler, at the “family entrance” of some low dive.  Even little girls bore tin pails, for the evening’s “scuttle o’ suds” to be consumed on roof, or in back yard of stinking tenement, or on some fire-escape.  The city, in fine, was relaxing from its toil; and, as the workers for the most part knew no other way, nor could afford any, they were trying to snatch some brief moment of respite from the Hell of their slavery, by recourse to rough ribaldry and alcohol.

Nine o’clock had just struck from the church-spires which mocked the slums with their appeal to an impassive Heaven, when, passing a foul and narrow alley that led down to the Genesee River, Gabriel saw a woman sitting on a doorstep, weeping bitterly.

This woman—­hardly more than a girl—­was holding a little bundle in one hand.  The other covered her face.  Her sobs were audible.  Grief of the most intense, he saw at once, convulsed her.  Two or three by-standers, watching with a kind of pleased curiosity, completed the scene, most sordid in its setting, there under the flicker of a gas-light on the corner.

“Hm!  What now?” thought Gabriel, stopping to watch the little tragedy.  “More trouble, eh?  It’s trouble all up and down the line, for these poor devils!  Nothing but trouble for the slave-class.  Well, well, let’s see what’s wrong now!”

Gabriel turned down the alley, drew near the little group, and halted.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, in the tone of authority he knew how to use; the tone which always overbore his outward aspect, even though he might have been clad in rags; the tone which made men yield to him, and women look at him with trustful eyes, even as the Billionaire’s daughter had looked.

“Search me!” murmured one of the men, shrugging his shoulders. “I can’t git nothin’ out o’ her.  She’s been sittin’ here, cryin’, a few minutes, that’s all I know; an’ she won’t say nothin’ to nobody.

“Any of you men know anything about it?” demanded Gabriel, looking at the rest.

A murmur of negation was his only answer.  One or two others, scenting some excitement, even though only that of a distressed woman—­common sight, indeed!—­lingered near.  The little group was growing.

Gabriel bent and touched the woman’s shoulder.