Chapter XLVII

by Theodore Dreiser

　　THE WAY OF THE BEATEN--A HARP IN THE WINDIn the city, at that time, there were a number of charitiessimilar in nature to that of the captain's, which Hurstwood nowpatronised in a like unfortunate way. One was a convent mission-house of the Sisters of Mercy in Fifteenth Street--a row of redbrick family dwellings, before the door of which hung a plainwooden contribution box, on which was painted the statement thatevery noon a meal was given free to all those who might apply andask for aid. This simple announcement was modest in the extreme,covering, as it did, a charity so broad. Institutions andcharities are so large and so numerous in New York that suchthings as this are not often noticed by the more comfortablysituated. But to one whose mind is upon the matter, they growexceedingly under inspection. Unless one were looking up thismatter in particular, he could have stood at Sixth Avenue andFifteenth Street for days around the noon hour and never havenoticed that out of the vast crowd that surged along that busythoroughfare there turned out, every few seconds, some weather-beaten, heavy-footed specimen of humanity, gaunt in countenanceand dilapidated in the matter of clothes. The fact is none theless true, however, and the colder the day the more apparent itbecame. Space and a lack of culinary room in the mission-house,compelled an arrangement which permitted of only twenty-five orthirty eating at one time, so that a line had to be formedoutside and an orderly entrance effected. This caused a dailyspectacle which, however, had become so common by repetitionduring a number of years that now nothing was thought of it. Themen waited patiently, like cattle, in the coldest weather--waitedfor several hours before they could be admitted. No questionswere 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 doorduring the entire operation and counted the admissible number.The men moved up in solemn order. There was no haste and noeagerness displayed. It was almost a dumb procession. In thebitterest weather this line was to be found here. Under an icywind there was a prodigious slapping of hands and a dancing offeet. Fingers and the features of the face looked as if severelynipped by the cold. A study of these men in broad light provedthem to be nearly all of a type. They belonged to the class thatsit on the park benches during the endurable days and sleep uponthem during the summer nights. They frequent the Bowery andthose down-at-the-heels East Side streets where poor clothes andshrunken features are not singled out as curious. They are themen who are in the lodginghouse sitting-rooms during bleak andbitter weather and who swarm about the cheaper shelters whichonly open at six in a number of the lower East Side streets.Miserable food, ill-timed and greedily eaten, had played havocwith bone and muscle. They were all pale, flabby, sunken-eyed,hollow-chested, with eyes that glinted and shone and lips thatwere a sickly red by contrast. Their hair was but half attendedto, their ears anaemic in hue, and their shoes broken in leatherand run down at heel and toe. They were of the class whichsimply floats and drifts, every wave of people washing up one, asbreakers do driftwood upon a stormy shore.For nearly a quarter of a century, in another section of thecity, Fleischmann, the baker, had given a loaf of bread to anyone who would come for it to the side door of his restaurant atthe corner of Broadway and Tenth Street, at midnight. Everynight during twenty years about three hundred men had formed inline and at the appointed time marched past the doorway, pickedtheir loaf from a great box placed just outside, and vanishedagain into the night. From the beginning to the present timethere had been little change in the character or number of thesemen. There were two or three figures that had grown familiar tothose who had seen this little procession pass year after year.Two of them had missed scarcely a night in fifteen years. Therewere about forty, more or less, regular callers. The remainderof the line was formed of strangers. In times of panic andunusual hardships there were seldom more than three hundred. Intimes of prosperity, when little is heard of the unemployed,there were seldom less. The same number, winter and summer, instorm or calm, in good times and bad, held this melancholymidnight rendezvous at Fleischmann's bread box.At both of these two charities, during the severe winter whichwas now on, Hurstwood was a frequent visitor. On one occasion itwas peculiarly cold, and finding no comfort in begging about thestreets, he waited until noon before seeking this free offeringto the poor. Already, at eleven o'clock of this morning, severalsuch as he had shambled forward out of Sixth Avenue, their thinclothes flapping and fluttering in the wind. They leaned againstthe iron railing which protects the walls of the Ninth RegimentArmory, which fronts upon that section of Fifteenth Street,having come early in order to be first in. Having an hour towait, they at first lingered at a respectful distance; but otherscoming up, they moved closer in order to protect their right ofprecedence. To this collection Hurstwood came up from the westout of Seventh Avenue and stopped close to the door, nearer thanall the others. Those who had been waiting before him, butfarther away, now drew near, and by a certain stolidity ofdemeanour, no words being spoken, indicated that they were first.Seeing the opposition to his action, he looked sullenly along theline, then moved out, taking his place at the foot. When orderhad been restored, 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 groceryman drove up and carried in several baskets of eatables. Thisstarted some words upon grocery men and the cost of food ingeneral."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,and those at the head, by their demeanour, evidentlycongratulated themselves upon not having so long to wait as thoseat the foot. There was much jerking of heads, and looking downthe line."It don't matter how near you get to the front, so long as you'rein the first twenty-five," commented one of the first twenty-five. "You all go in together.""Humph!" ejaculated Hurstwood, who had been so sturdilydisplaced."This here Single Tax is the thing," said another. "There ain'tgoing to be no order till it comes."For the most part there was silence; gaunt men shuffling,glancing, and beating their arms.At last the door opened and the motherly-looking sister appeared.She only looked an order. Slowly the line moved up and, one byone, passed in, until twenty-five were counted. Then sheinterposed a stout arm, and the line halted, with six men on thesteps. Of these the ex-manager was one. Waiting thus, sometalked, some ejaculated concerning the misery of it; somebrooded, as did Hurstwood. At last he was admitted, and, havingeaten, came away, almost angered because of his pains in gettingit.At eleven o'clock of another evening, perhaps two weeks later, hewas at the midnight offering of a loaf--waiting patiently. Ithad been an unfortunate day with him, but now he took his fatewith a touch of philosophy. If he could secure no supper, or washungry late in the evening, here was a place he could come. Afew minutes before twelve, a great box of bread was pushed out,and exactly on the hour a portly, round-faced German tookposition by it, calling "Ready." The whole line at once movedforward each taking his loaf in turn and going his separate way.On this occasion, the ex-manager ate his as he went plodding thedark streets in silence to his bed.By January he had about concluded that the game was up with him.Life had always seemed a precious thing, but now constant wantand weakened vitality had made the charms of earth rather dulland inconspicuous. Several times, when fortune pressed mostharshly, he thought he would end his troubles; but with a changeof weather, or the arrival of a quarter or a dime, his mood wouldchange, and he would wait. Each day he would find some old paperlying about and look into it, to see if there was any trace ofCarrie, but all summer and fall he had looked in vain. Then henoticed that his eyes were beginning to hurt him, and thisailment rapidly increased until, in the dark chambers of thelodgings he frequented, he did not attempt to read. Bad andirregular eating was weakening every function of his body. Theone recourse left him was to doze when a place offered and hecould get the money to occupy it.He was beginning to find, in his wretched clothing and meagrestate of body, that people took him for a chronic type of bum andbeggar. Police hustled him along, restaurant and lodginghousekeepers turned him out promptly the moment he had his due;pedestrians waved him off. He found it more and more difficultto get anything from anybody.At last he admitted to himself that the game was up. It wasafter a long series of appeals to pedestrians, in which he hadbeen refused and refused--every one hastening from contact."Give me a little something, will you, mister?" he said to thelast one. "For God's sake, do; I'm starving.""Aw, get out," said the man, who happened to be a common typehimself. "You're no good. I'll give you nawthin'."Hurstwood put his hands, red from cold, down in his pockets.Tears came into his eyes."That's right," he said; "I'm no good now. I was all right. Ihad money. I'm going to quit this," and, with death in hisheart, he started down toward the Bowery. People had turned onthe gas before and died; why shouldn't he? He remembered alodginghouse where there were little, close rooms, with gas-jetsin them, almost pre-arranged, he thought, for what he wanted todo, which rented for fifteen cents. Then he remembered that hehad 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 manboldly.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, brightcoin pleased him a little. He remembered that he was hungry andthat he could get a bed for ten cents. With this, the idea ofdeath passed, for the time being, out of his mind. It was onlywhen he could get nothing but insults that death seemed worthwhile.One day, in the middle of the winter, the sharpest spell of theseason set in. It broke grey and cold in the first day, and onthe second snowed. Poor luck pursuing him, he had secured butten cents by nightfall, and this he had spent for food. Atevening he found himself at the Boulevard and Sixty-seventhStreet, where he finally turned his face Bowery-ward. Especiallyfatigued because of the wandering propensity which had seized himin the morning, he now half dragged his wet feet, shuffling thesoles upon the sidewalk. An old, thin coat was turned up abouthis red ears--his cracked derby hat was pulled down until itturned 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 brightwindows, at every corner, might be seen gay companies inluxuriant restaurants. There were coaches and crowded cablecars.In his weary and hungry state, he should never have come here.The contrast was too sharp. Even he was recalled keenly tobetter things."What's the use?" he thought. "It's all up with me. I'll quitthis."People turned to look after him, so uncouth was his shamblingfigure. Several officers followed him with their eyes, to seethat he did not beg of anybody.Once he paused in an aimless, incoherent sort of way and lookedthrough the windows of an imposing restaurant, before whichblazed a fire sign, and through the large, plate windows of whichcould be seen the red and gold decorations, the palms, the whitenapery, and shining glassware, and, above all, the comfortablecrowd. Weak as his mind had become, his hunger was sharp enoughto show the importance of this. He stopped stock still, hisfrayed trousers soaking in the slush, and peered foolishly in."Eat," he mumbled. "That's right, eat. Nobody else wants any."Then his voice dropped even lower, and his mind half lost thefancy it had."It's mighty cold," he said. "Awful cold."At Broadway and Thirty-ninth Street was blazing, in incandescentfire, Carrie's name. "Carrie Madenda," it read, "and the CasinoCompany." All the wet, snowy sidewalk was bright with thisradiated fire. It was so bright that it attracted Hurstwood'sgaze. He looked up, and then at a large, gilt-framedposterboard, on which was a fine lithograph of Carrie, lifesize.Hurstwood gazed at it a moment, snuffling and hunching oneshoulder, as if something were scratching him. He was so rundown, however, that his mind was not exactly clear.He approached that entrance and went in."Well?" said the attendant, staring at him. Seeing him pause, hewent over 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 out of here," and he shoved him again. Hurstwood had nostrength to resist."I want to see Miss Madenda," he tried to explain, even as he wasbeing hustled 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 somevague sense of shame returned. He began to cry and swearfoolishly."God damned dog!" he said. "Damned old cur," wiping the slushfrom his worthless coat. "I--I hired such people as you once."Now a fierce feeling against Carrie welled up--just one fierce,angry thought 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 onwardand away, begging, crying, losing track of his thoughts, oneafter another, as a mind decayed and disjointed is wont to do.It was truly a wintry evening, a few days later, when his onedistinct mental decision was reached. Already, at four o'clock,the sombre hue of night was thickening the air. A heavy snow wasfalling--a fine picking, whipping snow, borne forward by a swiftwind in long, thin lines. The streets were bedded with it--sixinches of cold, soft carpet, churned to a dirty brown by thecrush of teams and the feet of men. Along Broadway men pickedtheir way in ulsters and umbrellas. Along the Bowery, menslouched through it with collars and hats pulled over their ears.In the former thoroughfare businessmen and travellers were makingfor comfortable hotels. In the latter, crowds on cold errandsshifted past dingy stores, in the deep recesses of which lightswere already gleaming. There were early lights in the cablecars, whose usual clatter was reduced by the mantle about thewheels. The whole city was muffled by this fast-thickeningmantle.In her comfortable chambers at the Waldorf, Carrie was reading atthis time "Pere Goriot," which Ames had recommended to her. Itwas so strong, and Ames's mere recommendation had so aroused herinterest, that she caught nearly the full sympatheticsignificance of it. For the first time, it was being borne inupon her how silly and worthless had been her earlier reading, asa whole. Becoming wearied, however, she yawned and came to thewindow, looking out upon the old winding procession of carriagesrolling up Fifth Avenue."Isn't it bad?" she observed to Lola."Terrible!" said that little lady, joining her. "I hope it snowsenough to go sleigh riding.""Oh, dear," said Carrie, with whom the sufferings of FatherGoriot were still keen. "That's all you think of. Aren't yousorry for the people who haven't anything to-night?""Of course I am," said Lola; "but what can I do? I haven'tanything."Carrie smiled."You wouldn't care, if you had," she returned."I would, too," said Lola. "But people never gave me anythingwhen I was hard up.""Isn't it just awful?" said Carrie, studying the winter's storm."Look at that man over there," laughed Lola, who had caught sightof some one falling down. "How sheepish men look when they fall,don't they?""We'll have to take a coach to-night," answered Carrie absently.In the lobby of the Imperial, Mr. Charles Drouet was justarriving, shaking the snow from a very handsome ulster. Badweather had driven him home early and stirred his desire forthose pleasures which shut out the snow and gloom of life. Agood dinner, the company of a young woman, and an evening at thetheatre 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 sittinghere thinking where I'd go to-night.""Come along with me," said Drouet. "I can introduce you tosomething dead swell.""Who is it?" said the other."Oh, a couple of girls over here in Fortieth Street. We couldhave a dandy time. I was just looking for you.""Supposing you get 'em and take 'em out to dinner?""Sure," said Drouet. "Wait'll I go upstairs and change myclothes.""Well, I'll be in the barber shop," said the other. "I want toget a shave.""All right," said Drouet, creaking off in his good shoes towardthe elevator. The old butterfly was as light on the wing asever.On an incoming vestibuled Pullman, speeding at forty miles anhour through the snow of the evening, were three others, allrelated."First call for dinner in the dining-car," a Pullman servitor wasannouncing, as he hastened through the aisle in snow-white apronand jacket."I don't believe I want to play any more," said the youngest, ablack-haired beauty, turned supercilious by fortune, as shepushed a euchre hand away from her."Shall we go into dinner?" inquired her husband, who was all thatfine raiment 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 goodclothing can do for age, "push that pin down in your tie--it'scoming up."Jessica obeyed, incidentally touching at her lovely hair andlooking at a little jewel-faced watch. Her husband studied her,for beauty, even cold, is fascinating from one point of view."Well, we won't have much more of this weather," he said. "Itonly takes two weeks to get to Rome."Mrs. Hurstwood nestled comfortably in her corner and smiled. Itwas so nice to be the mother-in-law of a rich young man--onewhose financial state had borne her personal inspection."Do you suppose the boat will sail promptly?" asked Jessica, "ifit keeps up like this?""Oh, yes," answered her husband. "This won't make anydifference."Passing down the aisle came a very fair-haired banker's son, alsoof Chicago, who had long eyed this supercilious beauty. Even nowhe did not hesitate to glance at her, and she was conscious ofit. With a specially conjured show of indifference, she turnedher 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 buildingin a side street quite near the Bowery, whose one-time coat ofbuff had been changed by soot and rain. He mingled with a crowdof men--a crowd which had been, and was still, gathering bydegrees.It began with the approach of two or three, who hung about theclosed wooden doors and beat their feet to keep them warm. Theyhad on faded derby hats with dents in them. Their misfit coatswere heavy with melted snow and turned up at the collars. Theirtrousers were mere bags, frayed at the bottom and wobbling overbig, soppy shoes, torn at the sides and worn almost to shreds.They made no effort to go in, but shifted ruefully about, diggingtheir hands deep in their pockets and leering at the crowd andthe increasing lamps. With the minutes, increased the number.There were old men with grizzled beards and sunken eyes, men whowere comparatively young but shrunken by diseases, men who weremiddle-aged. None were fat. There was a face in the thick ofthe collection which was as white as drained veal. There wasanother red as brick. Some came with thin, rounded shoulders,others with wooden legs, still others with frames so lean thatclothes only flapped about them. There were great ears, swollennoses, thick lips, and, above all, red, blood-shot eyes. Not anormal, healthy face in the whole mass; not a straight figure;not a straightforward, steady glance.In the drive of the wind and sleet they pushed in on one another.There were wrists, unprotected by coat or pocket, which were redwith cold. There were ears, half covered by every conceivablesemblance of a hat, which still looked stiff and bitten. In thesnow they shifted, now one foot, now another, almost rocking inunison.With the growth of the crowd about the door came a murmur. Itwas not conversation, but a running comment directed at any onein general. It contained 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. Itwas an edging, shifting, pushing throng. There was no anger, nopleading, no threatening words. It was all sullen endurance,unlightened by either wit or good fellowship.A carriage went jingling by with some reclining figure in it.One of the men nearest the door saw it."Look at the bloke ridin'.""He ain't so cold.""Eh, eh, eh!" yelled another, the carriage having long sincepassed out of hearing.Little by little the night crept on. Along the walk a crowdturned out on its way home. Men and shop-girls went by withquick steps. The cross-town cars began to be crowded. The gaslamps were blazing, and every window bloomed ruddy with a steadyflame. Still the crowd hung about 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, andmany gazed in that direction. They looked at it as dumb bruteslook, as dogs paw and whine and study the knob. They shifted andblinked and muttered, now a curse, now a comment. Still theywaited and still the snow whirled and cut them with bitingflakes. On the old hats and peaked shoulders it was piling. Itgathered in little heaps and curves and no one brushed it off.In the centre of the crowd the warmth and steam melted it, andwater trickled off hat rims and down noses, which the ownerscould not reach to scratch. On the outer rim the piles remainedunmelted. Hurstwood, who could not get in the centre, stood withhead lowered to the weather and bent his form.A light appeared through the transom overhead. It sent a thrillof possibility through the watchers. There was a murmur ofrecognition. At last the bars grated inside and the crowdpricked up its ears. Footsteps shuffled within and it murmuredagain. Some one called: "Slow up there, now," and then the dooropened. It was push and jam for a minute, with grim, beastsilence to prove its quality, and then it melted inward, likelogs floating, and disappeared. There were wet hats and wetshoulders, a cold, shrunken, disgruntled mass, pouring in betweenbleak walls. It was just six o'clock and there was supper inevery hurrying pedestrian's face. And yet no supper was providedhere--nothing but beds.Hurstwood laid down his fifteen cents and crept off with wearysteps to his allotted room. It was a dingy affair--wooden,dusty, hard. A small gas-jet furnished sufficient light for sorueful a corner."Hm!" he said, clearing his throat and locking the door.Now he began leisurely to take off his clothes, but stopped firstwith his coat, and tucked it along the crack under the door. Hisvest he arranged in the same place. His old wet, cracked hat helaid softly upon the table. Then he pulled off his shoes and laydown.It seemed as if he thought a while, for now he arose and turnedthe gas out, standing calmly in the blackness, hidden from view.After a few moments, in which he reviewed nothing, but merelyhesitated, he turned the gas on again, but applied no match.Even then he stood there, hidden wholly in that kindness which isnight, while the uprising fumes filled the room. When the odourreached his nostrils, he quit his attitude and fumbled for thebed. "What's the use?" he said, weakly, as he stretched himselfto rest.And now Carrie had attained that which in the beginning seemedlife's object, or, at least, such fraction of it as human beingsever attain of their original desires. She could look about onher gowns and carriage, her furniture and bank account. Friendsthere were, as the world takes it--those who would bow and smilein acknowledgment of her success. For these she had once craved.Applause there was, and publicity--once far off, essentialthings, but now grown trivial and indifferent. Beauty also--hertype of loveliness--and yet she was lonely. In her rocking-chairshe 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 onecome the men of action--generals and statesmen; of the other, thepoets and dreamers--artists all.As harps in the wind, the latter respond to every breath offancy, voicing in their moods all the ebb and flow of the ideal.Man has not yet comprehended the dreamer any more than he has theideal. For him the laws and morals of the world are undulysevere. Ever hearkening to the sound of beauty, straining forthe flash of its distant wings, he watches to follow, wearyinghis feet in travelling. So watched Carrie, so followed, rockingand singing.And it must be remembered that reason had little part in this.Chicago dawning, she saw the city offering more of lovelinessthan she had ever known, and instinctively, by force of her moodsalone, clung to it. In fine raiment and elegant surroundings,men seemed to be contented. Hence, she drew near these things.Chicago, New York; Drouet, Hurstwood; the world of fashion andthe world of stage--these were but incidents. Not them, but thatwhich they represented, she longed for. Time proved therepresentation false.Oh, the tangle of human life! How dimly as yet we see. Here wasCarrie, in the beginning poor, unsophisticated. emotional;responding with desire to everything most lovely in life, yetfinding herself turned as by a wall. Laws to say: "Be allured,if you will, by everything lovely, but draw not nigh unless byrighteousness." Convention to say: "You shall not better yoursituation save by honest labour." If honest labour beunremunerative and difficult to endure; if it be the long, longroad which never reaches beauty, but wearies the feet and theheart; if the drag to follow beauty be such that one abandons theadmired way, taking rather the despised path leading to herdreams quickly, who shall cast the first stone? Not evil, butlonging for that which is better, more often directs the steps ofthe erring. Not evil, but goodness more often allures thefeeling mind unused to reason.Amid the tinsel and shine of her state walked Carrie, unhappy.As when Drouet took her, she had thought: "Now I am lifted intothat which is best"; as when Hurstwood seemingly offered her thebetter way: "Now am I happy." But since the world goes its waypast all who will not partake of its folly, she now found herselfalone. Her purse was open to him whose need was greatest. Inher walks on Broadway, she no longer thought of the elegance ofthe creatures who passed her. Had they more of that peace andbeauty which glimmered afar off, then were they to be envied.Drouet abandoned his claim and was seen no more. Of Hurstwood'sdeath she was not even aware. A slow, black boat setting outfrom the pier at Twenty-seventh Street upon its weekly errandbore, with many others, his nameless body to the Potter's Field.Thus passed all that was of interest concerning these twain intheir relation to her. Their influence upon her life isexplicable alone by the nature of her longings. Time was whenboth represented for her all that was most potent in earthlysuccess. They were the personal representatives of a state mostblessed to attain--the titled ambassadors of comfort and peace,aglow with their credentials. It is but natural that when theworld which they represented no longer allured her, itsambassadors should be discredited. Even had Hurstwood returnedin his original beauty and glory, he could not now have alluredher. She had learned that in his world, as in her own presentstate, was not happiness.Sitting alone, she was now an illustration of the devious ways bywhich one who feels, rather than reasons, may be led in thepursuit of beauty. Though often disillusioned, she was stillwaiting for that halcyon day when she would be led forth amongdreams become real. Ames had pointed out a farther step, but onand on beyond that, if accomplished, would lie others for her.It was forever to be the pursuit of that radiance of delightwhich 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 itfollows. Whether it be the tinkle of a lone sheep bell o'er somequiet landscape, or the glimmer of beauty in sylvan places, orthe show of soul in some passing eye, the heart knows and makesanswer, following. It is when the feet weary and hope seems vainthat the heartaches and the longings arise. Know, then, that foryou is neither surfeit nor content. In your rocking-chair, byyour window dreaming, shall you long, alone. In your rocking-chair, by your window, shall you dream such happiness as you maynever feel.