When Caroline Meeber boarded the afternoon train for Chicago, her totaloutfit consisted of a small trunk, a cheap imitation alligator-skinsatchel, a small lunch in a paper box, and a yellow leather snap purse,containing her ticket, a scrap of paper with her sister's address in VanBuren Street, and four dollars in money. It was in August, 1889. She waseighteen years of age, bright, timid, and full of the illusions ofignorance and youth. Whatever touch of regret at parting characterisedher thoughts, it was certainly not for advantages now being given up. Agush of tears at her mother's farewell kiss, a touch in her throat whenthe cars clacked by the flour mill where her father worked by the day, apathetic sigh as the familiar green environs of the village passed inreview, and the threads which bound her so lightly to girlhood and homewere irretrievably broken.

To be sure there was always the next station, where one might descendand return. There was the great city, bound more closely by these verytrains which came up daily. Columbia City was not so very far away, evenonce she was in Chicago. What, pray, is a few hours--a few hundredmiles? She looked at the little slip bearing her sister's address andwondered. She gazed at the green landscape, now passing in swiftreview, until her swifter thoughts replaced its impression with vagueconjectures of what Chicago might be.

When a girl leaves her home at eighteen, she does one of two things.Either she falls into saving hands and becomes better, or she rapidlyassumes the cosmopolitan standard of virtue and becomes worse. Of anintermediate balance, under the circumstances, there is no possibility.The city has its cunning wiles, no less than the infinitely smaller andmore human tempter. There are large forces which allure with all thesoulfulness of expression possible in the most cultured human. The gleamof a thousand lights is often as effective as the persuasive light in awooing and fascinating eye. Half the undoing of the unsophisticated andnatural mind is accomplished by forces wholly superhuman. A blare ofsound, a roar of life, a vast array of human hives, appeal to theastonished senses in equivocal terms. Without a counsellor at hand towhisper cautious interpretations, what falsehoods may not these thingsbreathe into the unguarded ear! Unrecognised for what they are, theirbeauty, like music, too often relaxes, then weakens, then perverts thesimpler human perceptions.

Caroline, or Sister Carrie, as she had been half affectionately termedby the family, was possessed of a mind rudimentary in its power ofobservation and analysis. Self-interest with her was high, but notstrong. It was, nevertheless, her guiding characteristic. Warm with thefancies of youth, pretty with the insipid prettiness of the formativeperiod, possessed of a figure promising eventual shapeliness and an eyealight with certain native intelligence, she was a fair example of themiddle American class--two generations removed from the emigrant. Bookswere beyond her interest--knowledge a sealed book. In the intuitivegraces she was still crude. She could scarcely toss her headgracefully. Her hands were almost ineffectual. The feet, though small,were set flatly. And yet she was interested in her charms, quick tounderstand the keener pleasures of life, ambitious to gain in materialthings. A half-equipped little knight she was, venturing to reconnoitrethe mysterious city and dreaming wild dreams of some vague, far-offsupremacy, which should make it prey and subject--the proper penitent,grovelling at a woman's slipper.

"That," said a voice in her ear, "is one of the prettiest little resortsin Wisconsin."

"Is it?" she answered nervously.

The train was just pulling out of Waukesha. For some time she had beenconscious of a man behind. She felt him observing her mass of hair. Hehad been fidgetting, and with natural intuition she felt a certaininterest growing in that quarter. Her maidenly reserve, and a certainsense of what was conventional under the circumstances, called her toforestall and deny this familiarity, but the daring and magnetism of theindividual, born of past experiences and triumphs, prevailed. Sheanswered.

He leaned forward to put his elbows upon the back of her seat andproceeded to make himself volubly agreeable.

"Yes, that is a great resort for Chicago people. The hotels are swell.You are not familiar with this part of the country, are you?"

"Oh, yes, I am," answered Carrie. "That is, I live at Columbia City. Ihave never been through here, though."

"And so this is your first visit to Chicago," he observed.

All the time she was conscious of certain features out of the side ofher eye. Flush, colourful cheeks, a light moustache, a grey fedora hat.She now turned and looked upon him in full, the instincts ofself-protection and coquetry mingling confusedly in her brain.

"I didn't say that," she said.

"Oh," he answered, in a very pleasing way and with an assumed air ofmistake, "I thought you did."

Here was a type of the travelling canvasser for a manufacturing house--aclass which at that time was first being dubbed by the slang of the day"drummers." He came within the meaning of a still newer term, which hadsprung into general use among Americans in 1880, and which conciselyexpressed the thought of one whose dress or manners are calculated toelicit the admiration of susceptible young women--a "masher." His suitwas of a striped and crossed pattern of brown wool, new at that time,but since become familiar as a business suit. The low crotch of the vestrevealed a stiff shirt bosom of white and pink stripes. From his coatsleeves protruded a pair of linen cuffs of the same pattern, fastenedwith large, gold plate buttons, set with the common yellow agates knownas "cat's-eyes." His fingers bore several rings--one, the ever-enduringheavy seal--and from his vest dangled a neat gold watch chain, fromwhich was suspended the secret insignia of the Order of Elks. The wholesuit was rather tight-fitting, and was finished off with heavy-soled tanshoes, highly polished, and the grey fedora hat. He was, for the orderof intellect represented, attractive, and whatever he had to recommendhim, you may be sure was not lost upon Carrie, in this, her firstglance.

Lest this order of individual should permanently pass, let me put downsome of the most striking characteristics of his most successful mannerand method. Good clothes, of course, were the first essential, thethings without which he was nothing. A strong physical nature, actuatedby a keen desire for the feminine, was the next. A mind free of anyconsideration of the problems or forces of the world and actuated not bygreed, but an insatiable love of variable pleasure. His method wasalways simple. Its principal element was daring, backed, of course, byan intense desire and admiration for the sex. Let him meet with a youngwoman twice and he would straighten her necktie for her and perhapsaddress her by her first name. In the great department stores he was athis ease. If he caught the attention of some young woman while waitingfor the cash boy to come back with his change, he would find out hername, her favourite flower, where a note would reach her, and perhapspursue the delicate task of friendship until it proved unpromising, whenit would be relinquished. He would do very well with more pretentiouswomen, though the burden of expense was a slight deterrent. Uponentering a parlour car, for instance, he would select a chair next tothe most promising bit of femininity and soon enquire if she cared tohave the shade lowered. Before the train cleared the yards he would havethe porter bring her a footstool. At the next lull in his conversationalprogress he would find her something to read, and from then on, by dintof compliment gently insinuated, personal narrative, exaggeration andservice, he would win her tolerance, and, mayhap, regard.

A woman should some day write the complete philosophy of clothes. Nomatter how young, it is one of the things she wholly comprehends. Thereis an indescribably faint line in the matter of man's apparel whichsomehow divides for her those who are worth glancing at and those whoare not. Once an individual has passed this faint line on the waydownward he will get no glance from her. There is another line at whichthe dress of a man will cause her to study her own. This line theindividual at her elbow now marked for Carrie. She became conscious ofan inequality. Her own plain blue dress, with its black cotton tapetrimmings, now seemed to her shabby. She felt the worn state of hershoes.

"Let's see," he went on, "I know quite a number of people in your town.Morgenroth the clothier and Gibson the dry goods man."

"Oh, do you?" she interrupted, aroused by memories of longings theirshow windows had cost her.

At last he had a clew to her interest, and followed it deftly. In a fewminutes he had come about into her seat. He talked of sales of clothing,his travels, Chicago, and the amusements of that city.

"If you are going there, you will enjoy it immensely. Have yourelatives?"

"I am going to visit my sister," she explained.

"You want to see Lincoln Park," he said, "and Michigan Boulevard. Theyare putting up great buildings there. It's a second New York--great. Somuch to see--theatres, crowds, fine houses--oh, you'll like that."

There was a little ache in her fancy of all he described. Herinsignificance in the presence of so much magnificence faintly affectedher. She realised that hers was not to be a round of pleasure, and yetthere was something promising in all the material prospect he set forth.There was something satisfactory in the attention of this individualwith his good clothes. She could not help smiling as he told her of somepopular actress of whom she reminded him. She was not silly, and yetattention of this sort had its weight.

"You will be in Chicago some little time, won't you?" he observed at oneturn of the now easy conversation.

"I don't know," said Carrie vaguely--a flash vision of the possibilityof her not securing employment rising in her mind.

"Several weeks, anyhow," he said, looking steadily into her eyes.

There was much more passing now than the mere words indicated. Herecognised the indescribable thing that made up for fascination andbeauty in her. She realised that she was of interest to him from the onestandpoint which a woman both delights in and fears. Her manner wassimple, though for the very reason that she had not yet learned the manylittle affectations with which women conceal their true feelings. Somethings she did appeared bold. A clever companion--had she ever hadone--would have warned her never to look a man in the eyes so steadily.

"Why do you ask?" she said.

"Well, I'm going to be there several weeks. I'm going to study stock atour place and get new samples. I might show you 'round."

"I don't know whether you can or not. I mean I don't know whether I can.I shall be living with my sister, and----"

"Well, if she minds, we'll fix that." He took out his pencil and alittle pocket note-book as if it were all settled. "What is your addressthere?"

She fumbled her purse which contained the address slip.

He reached down in his hip pocket and took out a fat purse. It wasfilled with slips of paper, some mileage books, a roll of greenbacks. Itimpressed her deeply. Such a purse had never been carried by any oneattentive to her. Indeed, an experienced traveller, a brisk man of theworld, had never come within such close range before. The purse, theshiny tan shoes, the smart new suit, and the air with which he didthings, built up for her a dim world of fortune, of which he was thecentre. It disposed her pleasantly toward all he might do.

He took out a neat business card, on which was engraved Bartlett, Caryoe& Company, and down in the left-hand corner, Chas. H. Drouet.

"That's me," he said, putting the card in her hand and touching hisname. "It's pronounced Drew-eh. Our family was French, on my father'sside."

She looked at it while he put up his purse. Then he got out a letterfrom a bunch in his coat pocket. "This is the house I travel for," hewent on, pointing to a picture on it, "corner of State and Lake." Therewas pride in his voice. He felt that it was something to be connectedwith such a place, and he made her feel that way.

"What is your address?" he began again, fixing his pencil to write.

She looked at his hand.

"Carrie Meeber," she said slowly. "Three hundred and fifty-four West VanBuren Street, care S. C. Hanson."

He wrote it carefully down and got out the purse again. "You'll be athome if I come around Monday night?" he said.

"I think so," she answered.

How true it is that words are but the vague shadows of the volumes wemean. Little audible links, they are, chaining together great inaudiblefeelings and purposes. Here were these two, bandying little phrases,drawing purses, looking at cards, and both unconscious of howinarticulate all their real feelings were. Neither was wise enough to besure of the working of the mind of the other. He could not tell how hisluring succeeded. She could not realise that she was drifting, until hesecured her address. Now she felt that she had yielded something--he,that he had gained a victory. Already they felt that they were somehowassociated. Already he took control in directing the conversation. Hiswords were easy. Her manner was relaxed.

They were nearing Chicago. Signs were everywhere numerous. Trainsflashed by them. Across wide stretches of flat, open prairie they couldsee lines of telegraph poles stalking across the fields toward thegreat city. Far away were indications of suburban towns, some bigsmoke-stacks towering high in the air.

Frequently there were two-story frame houses standing out in the openfields, without fence or trees, lone outposts of the approaching army ofhomes.

To the child, the genius with imagination, or the wholly untravelled,the approach to a great city for the first time is a wonderful thing.Particularly if it be evening--that mystic period between the glare andgloom of the world when life is changing from one sphere or condition toanother. Ah, the promise of the night. What does it not hold for theweary! What old illusion of hope is not here forever repeated! Says thesoul of the toiler to itself, "I shall soon be free. I shall be in theways and the hosts of the merry. The streets, the lamps, the lightedchamber set for dining, are for me. The theatre, the halls, the parties,the ways of rest and the paths of song--these are mine in the night."Though all humanity be still enclosed in the shops, the thrill runsabroad. It is in the air. The dullest feel something which they may notalways express or describe. It is the lifting of the burden of toil.

Sister Carrie gazed out of the window. Her companion, affected by herwonder, so contagious are all things, felt anew some interest in thecity and pointed out its marvels.

"This is Northwest Chicago," said Drouet. "This is the Chicago River,"and he pointed to a little muddy creek, crowded with the huge mastedwanderers from far-off waters nosing the black-posted banks. With apuff, a clang, and a clatter of rails it was gone. "Chicago is gettingto be a great town," he went on. "It's a wonder. You'll find lots to seehere."

She did not hear this very well. Her heart was troubled by a kind ofterror. The fact that she was alone, away from home, rushing into agreat sea of life and endeavour, began to tell. She could not help butfeel a little choked for breath--a little sick as her heart beat sofast. She half closed her eyes and tried to think it was nothing, thatColumbia City was only a little way off.

"Chicago! Chicago!" called the brakeman, slamming open the door. Theywere rushing into a more crowded yard, alive with the clatter and clangof life. She began to gather up her poor little grip and closed her handfirmly upon her purse. Drouet arose, kicked his legs to straighten histrousers, and seized his clean yellow grip.

"I suppose your people will be here to meet you?" he said. "Let me carryyour grip."

"Oh, no," she said. "I'd rather you wouldn't. I'd rather you wouldn't bewith me when I meet my sister."

"All right," he said in all kindness. "I'll be near, though, in case sheisn't here, and take you out there safely."

"You're so kind," said Carrie, feeling the goodness of such attention inher strange situation.

"Chicago!" called the brakeman, drawing the word out long. They wereunder a great shadowy train shed, where the lamps were already beginningto shine out, with passenger cars all about and the train moving at asnail's pace. The people in the car were all up and crowding about thedoor.

"Well, here we are," said Drouet, leading the way to the door."Good-bye, till I see you Monday."

"Good-bye," she answered, taking his proffered hand.

"Remember, I'll be looking till you find your sister."

She smiled into his eyes.

They filed out, and he affected to take no notice of her. A lean-faced,rather commonplace woman recognised Carrie on the platform and hurriedforward.

"Why, Sister Carrie!" she began, and there was a perfunctory embrace ofwelcome.

Carrie realised the change of affectional atmosphere at once. Amid allthe maze, uproar, and novelty she felt cold reality taking her by thehand. No world of light and merriment. No round of amusement. Her sistercarried with her most of the grimness of shift and toil.

"Why, how are all the folks at home?" she began; "how is father, andmother?"

Carrie answered, but was looking away. Down the aisle, toward the gateleading into the waiting-room and the street, stood Drouet. He waslooking back. When he saw that she saw him and was safe with her sisterhe turned to go, sending back the shadow of a smile. Only Carrie saw it.She felt something lost to her when he moved away. When he disappearedshe felt his absence thoroughly. With her sister she was much alone, alone figure in a tossing, thoughtless sea.