Every conceivable form of pressure to prevent the trial of Walter Banks was brought to bear in the next few weeks; but Prosecutor Mathews had pushed the case vigorously in spite of it all. He felt not only that justice was at stake, but that his own moral fibre was in pawn, as well. He held aloof from his social friends—who were in many cases the friends of the accused, also—lest he lose sight of his duty through some fresh or new form of attack upon his integrity of purpose.

It had come to his knowledge that even the Judge who was to sit in the case had been approached by the friends of the defendant, and it was felt that it would be difficult to impanel a jury that would or could be fair and impartial.

If but one man was drawn from the "upper class," the jury would be sure to hang. On the other hand, if all of the talesmen were chosen from that social caste which feels that it is usually the victim, it would go hard with Walter Banks even if he were able—as seemed wholly unlikely—to show a reasonably clear case in his favor.

The day came. The court-room held an unusual audience. There were many ladies present who had never before seen the inside of such a room. They held their breath and were filled with awe and fear—of they knew not what.

Perhaps few men can realize what it is to a woman to face for the first time the embodiment of all that her strong faith and utter ignorance has carried to mature years as an ideal of justice and dignity—of solemn obligation and fearful responsibility. To her there has been no reverse side to the picture. She believes in courts as courts of justice. She knows nothing of quibble, of technicality, of precedent. Nothing here is light or humorous to her. Next to a death chamber the criminal court-room is fullest of the thoughts which reach beyond mere human responsibility and import, and all that passes there is freighted for her with a sense of finality that few men can comprehend. They think of reversal of judgment.

The fiat of the court is the closing knell to a woman; and although she may know the judge in private life to be a fallible or—more incongruous still—a jovial man, his presence here is overpowering. Of the jury she feels vaguely, dread. Of the judge, awe.

The mother of the prisoner sat near him. Her sad, pale, refined face troubled the young prosecutor sorely and he tugged at his conscience and spurred on his resolution after each glance at her.

The case was so plain, the evidence so clear, the defence so weak that the whole tide of public sentiment swung rapidly from the side of the prisoner to that of the people.

The indignation for him which had been felt by the society women who had come to show themselves as his friends changed into scorn and contempt. The whole mental atmosphere of the room underwent a revolution. When court opened few besides the officers believed him guilty. As the case drew near its close no one believed him innocent. He had not been allowed by his counsel to take the stand in his own behalf, and this had told strongly against him in the minds of both jury and spectators. The prosecuting attorney had made a telling speech, and the charge of the judge was plainly indicative of his opinion that there was but one verdict to give.

The jury had taken but one ballot. They had needed no charge from the judge at all.

"Guilty,"—came from the foreman's lips with a decided accent that indicated a certain satisfaction in pronouncing it. The prisoner's face grew a shade paler, but the puzzled light in his eyes lost nothing of that weary, insistent questioning that had marked their depths all day. Indeed, he seemed to be as much surprised, as the evidence had been unfolded, as were the friends who were there to see him vindicated.

During the speech of the prosecutor and the charge of the judge young Banks; mother had held her son's hand and tears had dropped unheeded from her eyes.

The judge had spoken again, but no one moved. The attorney for the prisoner bent forward and touched him on the shoulder.

"Stand up for sentence," he said. "The judge"—

"Sit still!" It was the woman beside him who spoke. She had dried her tears. Every face in the room was turned toward her now. She staggered to her feet. Her voice penetrated every corner of the room.

"I am the thief, judge. Sentence me. I stole the cloak!"

"Mother, mother! Great God, it is not true! Mother, sit down! She never saw the coat. Mother! Mother! Great God, what does it mean?"

The young fellow had sprung to his feet, but she eluded his grasp, and before any one knew what she intended to do she passed onto the witness stand.

There was a tense silence in the room. No one was prepared for the scene. It had been so swiftly done—so wholly without warning—that every one sat dumb.

She had caught up the Bible as she reached the stand and pressed it to her lips. She was vaguely aware that this act was looked upon as affecting the credibility of the witness. She also imagined that it gave her a right to put in her evidence even at this stage of the trial. She supposed that a trial was for the purpose of arriving at the facts and that the Court sat with that object alone in view. She did not know that it was too late. She was unaware that the case would have to be reopened to admit her evidence. She did not know that it was possible for the gate of justice to be swung shut in the face of truth. She supposed that all trials were for the one purpose of getting at the bottom of the case; so that it did not occur to her that her action was strange only in so far as such a confession from such a woman must be so regarded by all who knew her, and who was there in all the town who did not know and respect her?

The young prosecutor sat mute. The eyes of the judge widened in astonishment. For the moment he was the man and neighbor only. He forgot his office. She was talking rapidly, and all were listening.

"I am the thief, judge. Let me tell you. It is not right that he should suffer for my crime. Poor boy, his life has been a hell on earth for me—for me! And he has never understood. I could not tell him. I shall now. He shall understand. You shall, judge. Oh, God, if only a woman sat where you do—a mother! But let me tell you; I can. I thought I could not; but I can—even to these gentlemen." She waved her hand toward the jury and there was a widening of her nostrils as if her breath and courage were leaving her. "Rather than have him punished, disgraced, ruined, I can tell it all. He is not guilty. It is I! It is I!" She put her trembling hands to her temples and her eyes were those of a hunted creature at bay.

"Before he came into the world—you'll let me tell you frankly, judge? I must. Before he came into the world I made him what he is—a thief. Did I or did his father? It was like this. I am ashamed to tell it, but, oh, judge, I loved him, and I longed to make the pretty things and buy the dainty ones that would make his soft, white, dimpled flesh look sweeter when he should lie before me. His father was—you knew his father, judge. He was a good man, but— You know how he loved money—and power. He— I— I was the pauper most young wives are. I was too proud to ask for money, and if I had asked often— But I was too proud, so, perhaps, I need not tell about the if. Most women know it, and— You could not understand."

She paused. A panic had overtaken her nerves. She was becoming vaguely conscious of her position. Her eyes wandered over the room; but when they fell upon her son, sitting with his wretched face pinched and startled, with his deep eyes staring at her, her courage came again.

"At first I had no thought of theft. I used to go each night after my husband fell asleep and take a little money from his pocket. Only a little. He never missed it—never. So he used to whip the boy for stealing afterward and said he would disgrace us and— I never told him even then. Life was horrible. The growing certainty maddened me. He would steal anything, everything about the house, even his own things. He did not understand himself and he could not help it; but I did not think it would ever come to this—through me—through me!"

She calmed herself again suddenly by a glance at her son.

"Every night I took only a little money. My motive was a good one. I knew my husband did not understand how I longed to get the pretty things. How— Of course in one sense I had a right to the money. He was rich even then, but—I felt myself a—pauper—and a thief.

"I— Do you think young mothers should be young paupers, judge? I've sometimes thought that if they were not there might be less use for courts like this—and prisons.

"I've sometimes thought if mothers sat on juries they'd know the reasons why for crime and wrong and, maybe, work to cure the causes of the crimes rather than simply punish those who have committed them blindly—often blindly.

"I've sometimes thought the cost—in money—would be less; and then the cost in love and sorrow! Oh, judge, be patient just a little longer. Do not let them stop me. It means so much to us! I'll go back to the point. I'll tell the truth—all of it—all. But it is hard to do it—here.

"I bought the little wardrobe; but remember, judge, the months and months of daily building, bone on bone, fibre within fibre, thought on thought that is moulded into shape for human beings!

"I knew your father, judge. Your eyes are like his, but all your mental life—your temperament—you got from other blood than filled his veins.

"Your father's mother gave you your character. Your gentle heart is hers—your patient thoughtfulness. I knew her well. I knew your mother, too. She was the teacher of my motherhood. It was to her I told the truth in my boy's childhood—when I first began to realize or fear what I had done. You owe it all to her that you are strong and true. She understood in time—and now you sit in judgment on my boy, whose mother learned from yours too late the meaning and the danger of it all. She saved my other children. I killed my pride for them. I asked for money. The others may be beggars some day—they never will be thieves.

"That boy has never asked a favor. He simply cannot. His pride was always stronger than anything—anything except his love for me.

"I knit that in his blood too. I loved him so I made myself a thief for him. Of course I did not know—I did not understand the awful danger then; but— A young mother—I—it is hard to tell it here. You will not understand—you cannot. Oh, God, for a mother on the jury! A mother on the bench!"

She caught at her escaping courage again. The officer whose duty it was to take her away moved forward a second time, and a second time the judge motioned him back. She had been his mother's friend ever since he could remember, and the ordinary discipline of the court was not for her. He would do his duty, he said to himself, but surely there was no haste. All this was irregular, of course, but if something should come of it that gave excuse for a new trial no one would be more thankful than he.

"Young mothers are so ignorant. They know so little of all the things of which they should know much. They are so helpless. Judge, there will be criminal courts and prisons—oh, so many of both—just as long as motherhood is ignorant and helpless and swayed by feeling only. Don't you know it is ignorance and feeling that leads to crime? If people only understood! If only they were able to think it out to what it means, crimes would not be—but they cannot, they cannot! Those trembling lips you see before you are no more truly a copy of mine—the boy is as responsible for the set and curve of those lips—as he is for his hopeless fault. He has stolen from his infancy; but I, not he, am the thief. Now sentence the real criminal, judge. Courts are to punish the guilty—not to further curse the helpless victims. I am the criminal here. Sentence me!"

"Mother! Mother! I never understood my-self before! Oh, mother, mother!"

It was a wild cry from Walter Banks as his mother had risen asking for sentence on herself. He sprang forward, forgetting everything and took her in his arms. There was a great stir in the room.

"Silence in the court!"

Mrs. Banks had fainted. Her son helped to carry her into another room. No one attempted to prevent him. The young prosecutor returned with him and stood dumb before the court.

"I am ready for sentence, your Honor. I committed the burglary." It was the voice of the prisoner. He was standing with his arms folded and his eyes cast down. Silence fell in the room. The women ceased to sob. There was an uneasy movement in the jury box.

"In view of the new evidence—" began the foreman but the voice of the judge, slow and steady, filled the room.

"It is the sentence of this court that you, Walter Banks, be confined at hard labor in the state penitentiary for the term of four years."

The prisoner bowed and turned a shade paler.

"Do not tell mother that until she is better," he said to his attorney and passed out in the custody of the sheriff.

"And at the end of four years, what!" a lady was saying to the young prosecutor as the room slowly emptied.

"The brute!" was hurled after the judge by another, as his form vanished through the door.

"Shows that law is not for the poor alone—"

"Good things for social order and—"

"Well, yes, I'm rather disappointed; but of course a judge can't go behind the returns."

"Evidence all one way if—"

"Heavens, what a scene!"

"—my opinion no woman should ever be admitted to a court room except as a prisoner. It—"

"Feather in the cap of the prosecutor."

"—re-election sure enough now."

"Whole thing in a nutshell—"

"Simple question. Did he commit the burglary? If so—"

The young prosecutor hurried away from the sound of these voices and the congratulations of his political friends. He was mentally sore and perplexed because he had won his case.

That night he called upon the prisoner for the second time.

"I have made up' my mind to resign my office," he said, not looking at the convict, who had risen to receive him.

Walter Banks was by far the calmer of the two, but he did not speak.

"I shall never be able to act for the prosecution again. I thought this case was so clear. My duty seemed so plain—too plain to admit of anything but the most vigorous course of action; but—"

"You did nothing but your duty, Mathews. We are all victims I suppose—one way or another. You are going to be the victim of your sensitive conscience. The result will be a course of vacillation that will ruin your chances of success. I am sorry. You've got all the elements for a leader—only you've got a conscience. That settles it. A bit of heredity like that is as fatal as—as mine." He bit his lips.

"Don't let your part in my case worry you. The game of life has gone against me. That is all. The dice were loaded before I ever got hold of them. I did what I could to out-live—out-fight my awful—inheritance. I wasn't strong enough. It got the best of me. Nature is a terrible antagonist. Perhaps now that I understand myself better I shall be able to keep a firmer hold. You did your duty, Mathews; good-by. Be— Can't you be a little kind to mother? She suffers so. Her punishment is double—and her crime was ignorance!"

This time he took the hand that was held out to him.

"Only ignorance," he added. "It seems an awful punishment for that."

"Ignorance—and poverty and love," said the young prosecutor as the door closed behind him, "and Nature did the rest! What a grip is at our throats! And how we help blind Nature in her cruel work by laws and customs and conditions! What a little way we've come from barbarism yet! How slow we travel. But we are moving," he added with a deep sigh. "Moving a little. There is light ahead. If not for us, then for those who come after."

He heard the bolt slip behind him and shuddered.

"It might as easily have been I," he mused as he went down the steps, and shuddered again.

"I doubt if it was fault of his or virtue of mine that determined which of us two should be the prosecutor."