Late in the afternoon of a brilliant October day, Alexandra Bergson, dressed in a black suit and traveling-hat, alighted at the Burlington depot in Lincoln. She drove to the Lindell Hotel, where she had stayed two years ago when she came up for Emil’s Commencement. In spite of her usual air of sureness and self-possession, Alexandra felt ill at ease in hotels, and she was glad, when she went to the clerk’s desk to register, that there were not many people in the lobby. She had her supper early, wearing her hat and black jacket down to the dining-room and carrying her handbag. After supper she went out for a walk.

It was growing dark when she reached the university campus. She did not go into the grounds, but walked slowly up and down the stone walk outside the long iron fence, looking through at the young men who were running from one building to another, at the lights shining from the armory and the library. A squad of cadets were going through their drill behind the armory, and the commands of their young officer rang out at regular intervals, so sharp and quick that Alexandra could not understand them. Two stalwart girls came down the library steps and out through one of the iron gates. As they passed her, Alexandra was pleased to hear them speaking Bohemian to each other. Every few moments a boy would come running down the flagged walk and dash out into the street as if he were rushing to announce some wonder to the world. Alexandra felt a great tenderness for them all. She wished one of them would stop and speak to her. She wished she could ask them whether they had known Emil.

As she lingered by the south gate she actually did encounter one of the boys. He had on his drill cap and was swinging his books at the end of a long strap. It was dark by this time; he did not see her and ran against her. He snatched off his cap and stood bareheaded and panting. “I’m awfully sorry,” he said in a bright, clear voice, with a rising inflection, as if he expected her to say something.

“Oh, it was my fault!” said Alexandra eagerly. “Are you an old student here, may I ask?”

“No, ma’am. I’m a Freshie, just off the farm. Cherry County. Were you hunting somebody?”

“No, thank you. That is — ” Alexandra wanted to detain him. “That is, I would like to find some of my brother’s friends. He graduated two years ago.”

“Then you’d have to try the Seniors, wouldn’t you? Let’s see; I don’t know any of them yet, but there’ll be sure to be some of them around the library. That red building, right there,” he pointed.

“Thank you, I’ll try there,” said Alexandra lingeringly.

“Oh, that’s all right! Good-night.” The lad clapped his cap on his head and ran straight down Eleventh Street. Alexandra looked after him wistfully.

She walked back to her hotel unreasonably comforted. “What a nice voice that boy had, and how polite he was. I know Emil was always like that to women.” And again, after she had undressed and was standing in her nightgown, brushing her long, heavy hair by the electric light, she remembered him and said to herself, “I don’t think I ever heard a nicer voice than that boy had. I hope he will get on well here. Cherry County; that’s where the hay is so fine, and the coyotes can scratch down to water.”

At nine o’clock the next morning Alexandra presented herself at the warden’s office in the State Penitentiary. The warden was a German, a ruddy, cheerful-looking man who had formerly been a harness-maker. Alexandra had a letter to him from the German banker in Hanover. As he glanced at the letter, Mr. Schwartz put away his pipe.

“That big Bohemian, is it? Sure, he’s gettin’ along fine,” said Mr. Schwartz cheerfully.

“I am glad to hear that. I was afraid he might be quarrelsome and get himself into more trouble. Mr. Schwartz, if you have time, I would like to tell you a little about Frank Shabata, and why I am interested in him.”

The warden listened genially while she told him briefly something of Frank’s history and character, but he did not seem to find anything unusual in her account.

“Sure, I’ll keep an eye on him. We’ll take care of him all right,” he said, rising. “You can talk to him here, while I go to see to things in the kitchen. I’ll have him sent in. He ought to be done washing out his cell by this time. We have to keep ’em clean, you know.”

The warden paused at the door, speaking back over his shoulder to a pale young man in convicts’ clothes who was seated at a desk in the corner, writing in a big ledger.

“Bertie, when 1037 is brought in, you just step out and give this lady a chance to talk.”

The young man bowed his head and bent over his ledger again.

When Mr. Schwartz disappeared, Alexandra thrust her black-edged handkerchief nervously into her handbag. Coming out on the streetcar she had not had the least dread of meeting Frank. But since she had been here the sounds and smells in the corridor, the look of the men in convicts’ clothes who passed the glass door of the warden’s office, affected her unpleasantly.

The warden’s clock ticked, the young convict’s pen scratched busily in the big book, and his sharp shoulders were shaken every few seconds by a loose cough which he tried to smother. It was easy to see that he was a sick man. Alexandra looked at him timidly, but he did not once raise his eyes. He wore a white shirt under his striped jacket, a high collar, and a necktie, very carefully tied. His hands were thin and white and well cared for, and he had a seal ring on his little finger. When he heard steps approaching in the corridor, he rose, blotted his book, put his pen in the rack, and left the room without raising his eyes. Through the door he opened a guard came in, bringing Frank Shabata.

“You the lady that wanted to talk to 1037? Here he is. Be on your good behavior, now. He can set down, lady,” seeing that Alexandra remained standing. “Push that white button when you’re through with him, and I’ll come.”

The guard went out and Alexandra and Frank were left alone.

Alexandra tried not to see his hideous clothes. She tried to look straight into his face, which she could scarcely believe was his. It was already bleached to a chalky gray. His lips were colorless, his fine teeth looked yellowish. He glanced at Alexandra sullenly, blinked as if he had come from a dark place, and one eyebrow twitched continually. She felt at once that this interview was a terrible ordeal to him. His shaved head, showing the conformation of his skull, gave him a criminal look which he had not had during the trial.

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