In the city, at that time, there were a number of charities similar innature to that of the captain's, which Hurstwood now patronised in alike unfortunate way. One was a convent mission-house of the Sisters ofMercy in Fifteenth Street--a row of red brick family dwellings, beforethe door of which hung a plain wooden contribution box, on which waspainted the statement that every noon a meal was given free to all thosewho might apply and ask for aid. This simple announcement was modest inthe extreme, covering, as it did, a charity so broad. Institutions andcharities are so large and so numerous in New York that such things asthis are not often noticed by the more comfortably situated. But to onewhose mind is upon the matter, they grow exceedingly under inspection.Unless one were looking up this matter in particular, he could havestood at Sixth Avenue and Fifteenth Street for days around the noon hourand never have noticed that out of the vast crowd that surged along thatbusy thoroughfare there turned out, every few seconds, someweather-beaten, heavy-footed specimen of humanity, gaunt in countenanceand dilapidated in the matter of clothes. The fact is none the lesstrue, however, and the colder the day the more apparent it became. Spaceand a lack of culinary room in the mission-house, compelled anarrangement which permitted of only twenty-five or thirty eating at onetime, so that a line had to be formed outside and an orderly entranceeffected. This caused a daily spectacle which, however, had become socommon by repetition during a number of years that now nothing wasthought of it. The men waited patiently, like cattle, in the coldestweather--waited for several hours before they could be admitted. Noquestions were asked and no service rendered. They ate and went awayagain, some of them returning regularly day after day the winterthrough.

A big, motherly looking woman invariably stood guard at the door duringthe entire operation and counted the admissible number. The men moved upin solemn order. There was no haste and no eagerness displayed. It wasalmost a dumb procession. In the bitterest weather this line was to befound here. Under an icy wind there was a prodigious slapping of handsand a dancing of feet. Fingers and the features of the face looked as ifseverely nipped by the cold. A study of these men in broad light provedthem to be nearly all of a type. They belonged to the class that sit onthe park benches during the endurable days and sleep upon them duringthe summer nights. They frequent the Bowery and those down-at-the-heelsEast Side streets where poor clothes and shrunken features are notsingled out as curious. They are the men who are in the lodging-housesitting-rooms during bleak and bitter weather and who swarm about thecheaper shelters which only open at six in a number of the lower EastSide streets. Miserable food, ill-timed and greedily eaten, had playedhavoc with bone and muscle. They were all pale, flabby, sunken-eyed,hollow-chested, with eyes that glinted and shone and lips that were asickly red by contrast. Their hair was but half attended to, their earsanæmic in hue, and their shoes broken in leather and run down at heeland toe. They were of the class which simply floats and drifts, everywave of people washing up one, as breakers do driftwood upon a stormyshore.

For nearly a quarter of a century, in another section of the city,Fleischmann, the baker, had given a loaf of bread to any one who wouldcome for it to the side door of his restaurant at the corner of Broadwayand Tenth Street, at midnight. Every night during twenty years aboutthree hundred men had formed in line and at the appointed time marchedpast the doorway, picked their loaf from a great box placed justoutside, and vanished again into the night. From the beginning to thepresent time there had been little change in the character or number ofthese men. There were two or three figures that had grown familiar tothose who had seen this little procession pass year after year. Two ofthem had missed scarcely a night in fifteen years. There were aboutforty, more or less, regular callers. The remainder of the line wasformed of strangers. In times of panic and unusual hardships there wereseldom more than three hundred. In times of prosperity, when little isheard of the unemployed, there were seldom less. The same number, winterand summer, in storm or calm, in good times and bad, held thismelancholy midnight rendezvous at Fleischmann's bread box.

At both of these two charities, during the severe winter which was nowon, Hurstwood was a frequent visitor. On one occasion it was peculiarlycold, and finding no comfort in begging about the streets, he waiteduntil noon before seeking this free offering to the poor. Already, ateleven o'clock of this morning, several such as he had shambled forwardout of Sixth Avenue, their thin clothes flapping and fluttering in thewind. They leaned against the iron railing which protects the walls ofthe Ninth Regiment Armory, which fronts upon that section of FifteenthStreet, having come early in order to be first in. Having an hour towait, they at first lingered at a respectful distance; but others comingup, they moved closer in order to protect their right of precedence. Tothis collection Hurstwood came up from the west out of Seventh Avenueand stopped close to the door, nearer than all the others. Those who hadbeen waiting before him, but farther away, now drew near, and by acertain stolidity of demeanour, no words being spoken, indicated thatthey were first.

Seeing the opposition to his action, he looked sullenly along the line,then moved out, taking his place at the foot. When order had beenrestored, the animal feeling of opposition relaxed.

"Must be pretty near noon," ventured one.

"It is," said another. "I've been waiting nearly an hour."

"Gee, but it's cold!"

They peered eagerly at the door, where all must enter. A grocery mandrove up and carried in several baskets of eatables. This started somewords upon grocery men and the cost of food in general.

"I see meat's gone up," said one.

"If there wuz war, it would help this country a lot."

The line was growing rapidly. Already there were fifty or more, andthose at the head, by their demeanour, evidently congratulatedthemselves upon not having so long to wait as those at the foot. Therewas much jerking of heads, and looking down the line.

"It don't matter how near you get to the front, so long as you're in thefirst twenty-five," commented one of the first twenty-five. "You all goin together."

"Humph!" ejaculated Hurstwood, who had been so sturdily displaced.

"This here Single Tax is the thing," said another. "There ain't going tobe no order till it comes."

For the most part there was silence; gaunt men shuffling, glancing, andbeating their arms.

At last the door opened and the motherly-looking sister appeared. Sheonly looked an order. Slowly the line moved up and, one by one, passedin, until twenty-five were counted. Then she interposed a stout arm, andthe line halted, with six men on the steps. Of these the ex-manager wasone. Waiting thus, some talked, some ejaculated concerning the misery ofit; some brooded, as did Hurstwood. At last he was admitted, and, havingeaten, came away, almost angered because of his pains in getting it.

At eleven o'clock of another evening, perhaps two weeks later, he was atthe midnight offering of a loaf--waiting patiently. It had been anunfortunate day with him, but now he took his fate with a touch ofphilosophy. If he could secure no supper, or was hungry late in theevening, here was a place he could come. A few minutes before twelve, agreat box of bread was pushed out, and exactly on the hour a portly,round-faced German took position by it, calling "Ready." The whole lineat once moved forward, each taking his loaf in turn and going hisseparate way. On this occasion, the ex-manager ate his as he went,plodding the dark streets in silence to his bed.

By January he had about concluded that the game was up with him. Lifehad always seemed a precious thing, but now constant want and weakenedvitality had made the charms of earth rather dull and inconspicuous.Several times, when fortune pressed most harshly, he thought he wouldend his troubles; but with a change of weather, or the arrival of aquarter or a dime, his mood would change, and he would wait. Each day hewould find some old paper lying about and look into it, to see if therewas any trace of Carrie, but all summer and fall he had looked in vain.Then he noticed that his eyes were beginning to hurt him, and thisailment rapidly increased until, in the dark chambers of the lodgings hefrequented, he did not attempt to read. Bad and irregular eating wasweakening every function of his body. The one recourse left him was todoze when a place offered and he could get the money to occupy it.

He was beginning to find, in his wretched clothing and meagre state ofbody, that people took him for a chronic type of bum and beggar. Policehustled him along, restaurant and lodging-house keepers turned him outpromptly the moment he had his due; pedestrians waved him off. He foundit more and more difficult to get anything from anybody.

At last he admitted to himself that the game was up. It was after a longseries of appeals to pedestrians, in which he had been refused andrefused--every one hastening from contact.

"Give me a little something, will you, mister?" he said to the last one."For God's sake, do; I'm starving."

"Aw, get out," said the man, who happened to be a common type himself."You're no good. I'll give you nawthin'."

Hurstwood put his hands, red from cold, down in his pockets. Tears cameinto his eyes.

"That's right," he said; "I'm no good now. I was all right. I had money.I'm going to quit this," and, with death in his heart, he started downtoward the Bowery. People had turned on the gas before and died; whyshouldn't he? He remembered a lodging-house where there were little,close rooms, with gas-jets in them, almost pre-arranged, he thought, forwhat he wanted to do, which rented for fifteen cents. Then he rememberedthat he had no fifteen cents.

On the way he met a comfortable-looking gentleman, coming, clean-shaven,out of a fine barber shop.

"Would you mind giving me a little something?" he asked this man boldly.

The gentleman looked him over and fished for a dime. Nothing butquarters were in his pocket.

"Here," he said, handing him one, to be rid of him. "Be off, now."

Hurstwood moved on, wondering. The sight of the large, bright coinpleased him a little. He remembered that he was hungry and that he couldget a bed for ten cents. With this, the idea of death passed, for thetime being, out of his mind. It was only when he could get nothing butinsults that death seemed worth while.

One day, in the middle of the winter, the sharpest spell of the seasonset in. It broke grey and cold in the first day, and on the secondsnowed. Poor luck pursuing him, he had secured but ten cents bynightfall, and this he had spent for food. At evening he found himselfat the Boulevard and Sixty-seventh Street, where he finally turned hisface Bowery-ward. Especially fatigued because of the wanderingpropensity which had seized him in the morning, he now half dragged hiswet feet, shuffling the soles upon the sidewalk. An old, thin coat wasturned up about his red ears--his cracked derby hat was pulled downuntil it turned them outward. His hands were in his pockets.

"I'll just go down Broadway," he said to himself.

When he reached Forty-second Street, the fire signs were alreadyblazing brightly. Crowds were hastening to dine. Through bright windows,at every corner, might be seen gay companies in luxuriant restaurants.There were coaches and crowded cable cars.

In his weary and hungry state, he should never have come here. Thecontrast was too sharp. Even he was recalled keenly to better things.

"What's the use?" he thought. "It's all up with me. I'll quit this."

People turned to look after him, so uncouth was his shambling figure.Several officers followed him with their eyes, to see that he did notbeg of anybody.

Once he paused in an aimless, incoherent sort of way and looked throughthe windows of an imposing restaurant, before which blazed a fire sign,and through the large, plate windows of which could be seen the red andgold decorations, the palms, the white napery, and shining glassware,and, above all, the comfortable crowd. Weak as his mind had become, hishunger was sharp enough to show the importance of this. He stopped stockstill, his frayed trousers soaking in the slush, and peered foolishlyin.

"Eat," he mumbled. "That's right, eat. Nobody else wants any."

Then his voice dropped even lower, and his mind half lost the fancy ithad.

"It's mighty cold," he said. "Awful cold."

At Broadway and Thirty-ninth Street was blazing, in incandescent fire,Carrie's name. "Carrie Madenda," it read, "and the Casino Company." Allthe wet, snowy sidewalk was bright with this radiated fire. It was sobright that it attracted Hurstwood's gaze. He looked up, and then at alarge, gilt-framed poster-board, on which was a fine lithograph ofCarrie, life-size.

Hurstwood gazed at it a moment, snuffling and hunching one shoulder, asif something were scratching him. He was so run down, however, that hismind was not exactly clear.

"That's you," he said at last, addressing her. "Wasn't good enough foryou, was I? Huh!"

He lingered, trying to think logically. This was no longer possible withhim.

"She's got it," he said, incoherently, thinking of money. "Let her giveme some."

He started around to the side door. Then he forgot what he was going forand paused, pushing his hands deeper to warm the wrists. Suddenly itreturned. The stage door! That was it.

He approached that entrance and went in.

"Well?" said the attendant, staring at him. Seeing him pause, he wentover and shoved him. "Get out of here," he said.

"I want to see Miss Madenda," he said.

"You do, eh?" the other said, almost tickled at the spectacle. "Get outof here," and he shoved him again. Hurstwood had no strength to resist.

"I want to see Miss Madenda," he tried to explain, even as he was beinghustled away. "I'm all right. I----"

The man gave him a last push and closed the door. As he did so,Hurstwood slipped and fell in the snow. It hurt him, and some vaguesense of shame returned. He began to cry and swear foolishly.

"God damned dog!" he said. "Damned old cur," wiping the slush from hisworthless coat. "I--I hired such people as you once."

Now a fierce feeling against Carrie welled up--just one fierce, angrythought before the whole thing slipped out of his mind.

"She owes me something to eat," he said. "She owes it to me."

Hopelessly he turned back into Broadway again and slopped onward andaway, begging, crying, losing track of his thoughts, one after another,as a mind decayed and disjointed is wont to do.

It was truly a wintry evening, a few days later, when his one distinctmental decision was reached. Already, at four o'clock, the sombre hue ofnight was thickening the air. A heavy snow was falling--a fine picking,whipping snow, borne forward by a swift wind in long, thin lines. Thestreets were bedded with it--six inches of cold, soft carpet, churned toa dirty brown by the crush of teams and the feet of men. Along Broadwaymen picked their way in ulsters and umbrellas. Along the Bowery, menslouched through it with collars and hats pulled over their ears. In theformer thoroughfare business men and travellers were making forcomfortable hotels. In the latter, crowds on cold errands shifted pastdingy stores, in the deep recesses of which lights were alreadygleaming. There were early lights in the cable cars, whose usual clatterwas reduced by the mantle about the wheels. The whole city was muffledby this fast-thickening mantle.

In her comfortable chambers at the Waldorf, Carrie was reading at thistime "Père Goriot," which Ames had recommended to her. It was so strong,and Ames's mere recommendation had so aroused her interest, that shecaught nearly the full sympathetic significance of it. For the firsttime, it was being borne in upon her how silly and worthless had beenher earlier reading, as a whole. Becoming wearied, however, she yawnedand came to the window, looking out upon the old winding procession ofcarriages rolling up Fifth Avenue.

"Isn't it bad?" she observed to Lola.

"Terrible!" said that little lady, joining her. "I hope it snows enoughto go sleigh riding."

"Oh, dear," said Carrie, with whom the sufferings of Father Goriot werestill keen. "That's all you think of. Aren't you sorry for the peoplewho haven't anything to-night?"

"Of course I am," said Lola; "but what can I do? I haven't anything."

Carrie smiled.

"You wouldn't care, if you had," she returned.

"I would, too," said Lola. "But people never gave me anything when I washard up."

"Isn't it just awful?" said Carrie, studying the winter's storm.

"Look at that man over there," laughed Lola, who had caught sight ofsome one falling down. "How sheepish men look when they fall, don'tthey?"

"We'll have to take a coach to-night," answered Carrie, absently.

* * * * *

In the lobby of the Imperial, Mr. Charles Drouet was just arriving,shaking the snow from a very handsome ulster. Bad weather had driven himhome early and stirred his desire for those pleasures which shut out thesnow and gloom of life. A good dinner, the company of a young woman, andan evening at the theatre were the chief things for him.

"Why, hello, Harry!" he said, addressing a lounger in one of thecomfortable lobby chairs. "How are you?"

"Oh, about six and six," said the other.

"Rotten weather, isn't it?"

"Well, I should say," said the other. "I've been just sitting herethinking where I'd go to-night."

"Come along with me," said Drouet. "I can introduce you to somethingdead swell."

"Who is it?" said the other.

"Oh, a couple of girls over here in Fortieth Street. We could have adandy time. I was just looking for you."

"Supposing we get 'em and take 'em out to dinner?"

"Sure," said Drouet. "Wait'll I go upstairs and change my clothes."

"Well, I'll be in the barber shop," said the other. "I want to get ashave."

"All right," said Drouet, creaking off in his good shoes toward theelevator. The old butterfly was as light on the wing as ever.

* * * * *

On an incoming vestibuled Pullman, speeding at forty miles an hourthrough the snow of the evening, were three others, all related.

"First call for dinner in the dining-car," a Pullman servitor wasannouncing, as he hastened through the aisle in snow-white apron andjacket.

"I don't believe I want to play any more," said the youngest, ablack-haired beauty, turned supercilious by fortune, as she pushed aeuchre hand away from her.

"Shall we go into dinner?" inquired her husband, who was all that fineraiment can make.

"Oh, not yet," she answered. "I don't want to play any more, though."

"Jessica," said her mother, who was also a study in what good clothingcan do for age, "push that pin down in your tie--it's coming up."

Jessica obeyed, incidentally touching at her lovely hair and looking ata little jewel-faced watch. Her husband studied her, for beauty, evencold, is fascinating from one point of view.

"Well, we won't have much more of this weather," he said. "It only takestwo weeks to get to Rome."

Mrs. Hurstwood nestled comfortably in her corner and smiled. It was sonice to be the mother-in-law of a rich young man--one whose financialstate had borne her personal inspection.

"Do you suppose the boat will sail promptly?" asked Jessica, "if itkeeps up like this?"

"Oh, yes," answered her husband. "This won't make any difference."

Passing down the aisle came a very fair-haired banker's son, also ofChicago, who had long eyed this supercilious beauty. Even now he did nothesitate to glance at her, and she was conscious of it. With a speciallyconjured show of indifference, she turned her pretty face wholly away.It was not wifely modesty at all. By so much was her pride satisfied.

* * * * *

At this moment Hurstwood stood before a dirty four-story building in aside street quite near the Bowery, whose one-time coat of buff had beenchanged by soot and rain. He mingled with a crowd of men--a crowd whichhad been, and was still, gathering by degrees.

It began with the approach of two or three, who hung about the closedwooden doors and beat their feet to keep them warm. They had on fadedderby hats with dents in them. Their misfit coats were heavy with meltedsnow and turned up at the collars. Their trousers were mere bags, frayedat the bottom and wobbling over big, soppy shoes, torn at the sides andworn almost to shreds. They made no effort to go in, but shiftedruefully about, digging their hands deep in their pockets and leering atthe crowd and the increasing lamps. With the minutes, increased thenumber. There were old men with grizzled beards and sunken eyes, menwho were comparatively young but shrunken by diseases, men who weremiddle-aged. None were fat. There was a face in the thick of thecollection which was as white as drained veal. There was another red asbrick. Some came with thin, rounded shoulders; others with wooden legs,still others with frames so lean that clothes only flapped about them.There were great ears, swollen noses, thick lips, and, above all, red,blood-shot eyes. Not a normal, healthy face in the whole mass; not astraight figure; not a straightforward, steady glance.

In the drive of the wind and sleet they pushed in on one another. Therewere wrists, unprotected by coat or pocket, which were red with cold.There were ears, half covered by every conceivable semblance of a hat,which still looked stiff and bitten. In the snow they shifted, now onefoot, now another, almost rocking in unison.

With the growth of the crowd about the door came a murmur. It was notconversation, but a running comment directed at any one in general. Itcontained oaths and slang phrases.

"By damn, I wish they'd hurry up."

"Look at the copper watchin'."

"Maybe it ain't winter, nuther!"

"I wisht I was in Sing Sing."

Now a sharper lash of wind cut down and they huddled closer. It was anedging, shifting, pushing throng. There was no anger, no pleading, nothreatening words. It was all sullen endurance, unlightened by eitherwit or good fellowship.

A carriage went jingling by with some reclining figure in it. One of themen nearest the door saw it.

"Look at the bloke ridin'."

"He ain't so cold."

"Eh, eh, eh!" yelled another, the carriage having long since passed outof hearing.

Little by little the night crept on. Along the walk a crowd turned outon its way home. Men and shop-girls went by with quick steps. Thecross-town cars began to be crowded. The gas lamps were blazing, andevery window bloomed ruddy with a steady flame. Still the crowd hungabout the door, unwavering.

"Ain't they ever goin' to open up?" queried a hoarse voice,suggestively.

This seemed to renew the general interest in the closed door, and manygazed in that direction. They looked at it as dumb brutes look, as dogspaw and whine and study the knob. They shifted and blinked and muttered,now a curse, now a comment. Still they waited and still the snow whirledand cut them with biting flakes. On the old hats and peaked shoulders itwas piling. It gathered in little heaps and curves and no one brushed itoff. In the centre of the crowd the warmth and steam melted it, andwater trickled off hat rims and down noses, which the owners could notreach to scratch. On the outer rim the piles remained unmelted.Hurstwood, who could not get in the centre, stood with head lowered tothe weather and bent his form.

A light appeared through the transom overhead. It sent a thrill ofpossibility through the watchers. There was a murmur of recognition. Atlast the bars grated inside and the crowd pricked up its ears. Footstepsshuffled within and it murmured again. Some one called: "Slow up there,now," and then the door opened. It was push and jam for a minute, withgrim, beast silence to prove its quality, and then it melted inward,like logs floating, and disappeared. There were wet hats and wetshoulders, a cold, shrunken, disgruntled mass, pouring in between bleakwalls. It was just six o'clock and there was supper in every hurryingpedestrian's face. And yet no supper was provided here--nothing butbeds.

Hurstwood laid down his fifteen cents and crept off with weary steps tohis allotted room. It was a dingy affair--wooden, dusty, hard. A smallgas-jet furnished sufficient light for so rueful a corner.

"Hm!" he said, clearing his throat and locking the door.

Now he began leisurely to take off his clothes, but stopped first withhis coat, and tucked it along the crack under the door. His vest hearranged in the same place. His old wet, cracked hat he laid softly uponthe table. Then he pulled off his shoes and lay down.

It seemed as if he thought a while, for now he arose and turned the gasout, standing calmly in the blackness, hidden from view. After a fewmoments, in which he reviewed nothing, but merely hesitated, he turnedthe gas on again, but applied no match. Even then he stood there, hiddenwholly in that kindness which is night, while the uprising fumes filledthe room. When the odour reached his nostrils, he quit his attitude andfumbled for the bed.

"What's the use?" he said, weakly, as he stretched himself to rest.

* * * * *

And now Carrie had attained that which in the beginning seemed life'sobject, or, at least, such fraction of it as human beings ever attain oftheir original desires. She could look about on her gowns and carriage,her furniture and bank account. Friends there were, as the world takesit--those who would bow and smile in acknowledgment of her success. Forthese she had once craved. Applause there was, and publicity--once faroff, essential things, but now grown trivial and indifferent. Beautyalso--her type of loveliness--and yet she was lonely. In herrocking-chair she sat, when not otherwise engaged--singing and dreaming.

Thus in life there is ever the intellectual and the emotionalnature--the mind that reasons, and the mind that feels. Of one come themen of action--generals and statesmen; of the other, the poets anddreamers--artists all.

As harps in the wind, the latter respond to every breath of fancy,voicing in their moods all the ebb and flow of the ideal.

Man has not yet comprehended the dreamer any more than he has the ideal.For him the laws and morals of the world are unduly severe. Everhearkening to the sound of beauty, straining for the flash of itsdistant wings, he watches to follow, wearying his feet in travelling. Sowatched Carrie, so followed, rocking and singing.

And it must be remembered that reason had little part in this. Chicagodawning, she saw the city offering more of loveliness than she had everknown, and instinctively, by force of her moods alone, clung to it. Infine raiment and elegant surroundings, men seemed to be contented.Hence, she drew near these things. Chicago, New York; Drouet, Hurstwood;the world of fashion and the world of stage--these were but incidents.Not them, but that which they represented, she longed for. Time provedthe representation false.

Oh, the tangle of human life! How dimly as yet we see. Here was Carrie,in the beginning poor, unsophisticated, emotional; responding withdesire to everything most lovely in life, yet finding herself turned asby a wall. Laws to say: "Be allured, if you will, by everything lovely,but draw not nigh unless by righteousness." Convention to say: "Youshall not better your situation save by honest labour." If honest labourbe unremunerative and difficult to endure; if it be the long, long roadwhich never reaches beauty, but wearies the feet and the heart; if thedrag to follow beauty be such that one abandons the admired way, takingrather the despised path leading to her dreams quickly, who shall castthe first stone? Not evil, but longing for that which is better, moreoften directs the steps of the erring. Not evil, but goodness more oftenallures the feeling mind unused to reason.

Amid the tinsel and shine of her state walked Carrie, unhappy. As whenDrouet took her, she had thought: "Now am I lifted into that which isbest"; as when Hurstwood seemingly offered her the better way: "Now am Ihappy." But since the world goes its way past all who will not partakeof its folly, she now found herself alone. Her purse was open to himwhose need was greatest. In her walks on Broadway, she no longer thoughtof the elegance of the creatures who passed her. Had they more of thatpeace and beauty which glimmered afar off, then were they to be envied.

Drouet abandoned his claim and was seen no more. Of Hurstwood's deathshe was not even aware. A slow, black boat setting out from the pier atTwenty-seventh Street upon its weekly errand bore, with many others, hisnameless body to the Potter's Field.

Thus passed all that was of interest concerning these twain in theirrelation to her. Their influence upon her life is explicable alone bythe nature of her longings. Time was when both represented for her allthat was most potent in earthly success. They were the personalrepresentatives of a state most blessed to attain--the titledambassadors of comfort and peace, aglow with their credentials. It isbut natural that when the world which they represented no longer alluredher, its ambassadors should be discredited. Even had Hurstwood returnedin his original beauty and glory, he could not now have allured her. Shehad learned that in his world, as in her own present state, was nothappiness.

Sitting alone, she was now an illustration of the devious ways by whichone who feels, rather than reasons, may be led in the pursuit of beauty.Though often disillusioned, she was still waiting for that halcyon daywhen she should be led forth among dreams become real. Ames had pointedout a farther step, but on and on beyond that, if accomplished, wouldlie others for her. It was forever to be the pursuit of that radiance ofdelight which tints the distant hilltops of the world.

Oh, Carrie, Carrie! Oh, blind strivings of the human heart! Onward,onward, it saith, and where beauty leads, there it follows. Whether itbe the tinkle of a lone sheep bell o'er some quiet landscape, or theglimmer of beauty in sylvan places, or the show of soul in some passingeye, the heart knows and makes answer, following. It is when the feetweary and hope seems vain that the heartaches and the longings arise.Know, then, that for you is neither surfeit nor content. In yourrocking-chair, by your window dreaming, shall you long, alone. In yourrocking-chair, by your window, shall you dream such happiness as you maynever feel.

THE END