
through--inarticulate cries of warning, judgment, pain. But he
could put nothing into words.

'Good-bye, Louie!'

She turned and stood looking at him.

'What made you get ill?' she inquired, eyeing him.

His thirsty heart drank in the change of tone.

'I don't sleep,' he said hurriedly. 'It's the noise. The Nord
station is never quiet. Well, mind you've got to bring that off.
Keep the papers safe. Good-bye, for a long time'.

'I can come over when I want?' she said half sullenly.

'Yes,' he assented, 'but you won't want.'

He drew her by the hand with a solemn tremulous feeling, and kissed
her on the cheek. He would have liked to give her their father's
dying letter. It was there, in his coat-pocket. But he shrank from
the emotion of it. No, he must go. He had done all he could.

She opened the door for him, and took him to the garden-gate in
silence.

'When I'm married,' she said shortly, 'if ever I am--Lord knows!--you
can tell Uncle Reuben and Dora?'

'Yes. Good-bye.'

The gate closed behind him. He went away, hurrying towards the
Auteuil station.

When he landed again in the Paris streets, he stood irresolute.

'One more look,' he said to himself, 'one more.'

And he turned down the Rue Chantal. There was the familiar archway,
and the light shining behind the porter's door. Was her room
already stripped and bare, or was the broken glass--poor dumb
prophet!--still there, against the wall?

He wandered on through the lamp-lit city and the crowded pavements.
Elise--the wraith of her--went with him, hand in hand, ghost with
ghost, amid this multitude of men. Sometimes, breaking from this
dream-companionship, he would wake with terror to the perception of
his true, his utter loneliness. He was not made to be alone, and
the thought that nowhere in this great Paris was there a single
human being to whose
through -- inarticulate cries of warning, judgment, pain. But he 
 could place nothing into son. 

' Good - bye, Louie!' 

 She turned and stood looking at him. 

' What make you get ill?' she inquired, eye him. 

 His thirsty heart drank in the variety of shade. 

' I don't sleep,' he said hurriedly.' It's the randomness. The Nord 
 station is never quiet. Well, mind you've got to fetch that off. 
 Keep the papers safe. Good - bye, for a long clock time'. 

' I can come over when I want?' she said half dourly. 

' Yes,' he assented,' but you won't want.' 

 He describe her by the handwriting with a solemn quavering feeling, and kissed 
 her on the cheek. He would have liked to hold her their father's 
 dying letter. It was there, in his coat - pocket. But he shrank from 
 the emotion of it. No, he must run low. He had done all he could. 

 She opened the door for him, and took him to the garden - gate in 
 silence. 

' When I'm married,' she said shortly,' if always I am -- Lord knows!--you 
 can state Uncle Reuben and Dora?' 

' Yes. Good - bye.' 

 The gate close behind him. He proceed away, hurrying towards the 
 Auteuil place. 

 When he landed again in the Paris streets, he stood irresolute. 

' One more look,' he say to himself,' one more.' 

 And he turned down the Rue Chantal. There was the familiar archway, 
 and the light shining behind the doorkeeper's door. Was her room 
 already stripped and bare, or was the broken glass -- poor dumb 
 prophet!--still there, against the wall? 

 He digress on through the lamp - lit city and the crowded pavements. 
 Elise -- the wraith of her -- went with him, bridge player in hand, ghost with 
 ghost, amid this battalion of men. Sometimes, break from this 
 dream - companionship, he would inflame with terror to the perception of 
 his truthful, his utter forlornness. He was not made to be alone, and 
 the idea that nowhere in this great Paris was there a individual 
 human being to whose

thrlugh--inarticulate cries on warning, judgmeur, pain. But hs
could pjt nothing into words.

'Good-bye, Liuie!'

Sye turned and stood louking at jim.

'What nade tou get ill?' she inquired, cyeiny iim.

His thirsty meart drank in the change ow cone.

'I don't sleep,' he said hurriedly. 'Ie's the molse. The Nord
stwtiom is hvvtr quiet. Well, mind you've got to bding thet off.
Keep the lapers safe. Good-bye, for a pong time'.

'I can come ovfr when I wqnt?' fye said half sullenly.

'Yts,' he assentgd, 'but you won't want.'

He drew her cy thz hand with a sopgmn tremulouw feejing, and kissed
her ot the cneek. He would mave nikwd to give her their hather's
dying letter. Yt was tharz, in his coat-pocket. Byt he svrann frun
thd ejovioh of ih. Nk, he must fo. He had dine all he could.

She o[vmed the door for hym, and took him to the garden-gate in
silenbe.

'Whsn I'm married,' she said whortly, 'if ever I am--Llrd knows!--rou
can tell Uncle Reuben and Dora?'

'Yes. Good-bye.'

The gdte cmuseb behive jim. He went away, hurrying towards the
Auteuil ffauiok.

When he landed cgain in the Paros syteets, he stood irresolufe.

'One more look,' he said tj himwelf, 'one iore.'

Snd he turned down the Rue Xhantal. Therv waw the familiar arckway,
and the uighj shinong behind the porter's boor. Wzs her room
wlready sffipped and bare, ur eav the broken glass--poor dumf
prophet!--svill chere, agxinsj the wwll?

He wandfred on through the lamp-pit cnty atd the croaded pavements.
Elise--the wraith oh her--went witn vim, hand in hand, ghost with
ghjst, amid this kultitube of oen. Sometijes, breeking from tris
dream-compatlonship, he wmuld wakq wirh twrror tu the perceptiom of
his tgut, his uttee loneliness. He wax nuf made to be aline, and
the thought thxt goahxre ig this great [arir wxx thefe a single
mumxn bring to whose
through--inarticulate cries of warning, judgment, pain. But put into words. Louie!' She turned 'What you get ill?' inquired, eyeing him. thirsty heart drank in the change tone. 'I don't sleep,' he said hurriedly. 'It's the noise. The Nord station never quiet. Well, mind you've got to bring that off. Keep the papers Good-bye, a time'. can come over when I want?' she said half sullenly. 'Yes,' he assented, 'but you won't He drew her by the hand with a tremulous feeling, and kissed on the cheek. He would liked give her father's letter. was there, in coat-pocket. But he shrank from the emotion of it. No, he must go. He had done all could. She door for and him the garden-gate in I'm married,' she said shortly, 'if knows!--you can tell Uncle Reuben and Dora?' 'Yes. The gate behind him. He went away, hurrying the Auteuil station. When he landed again in Paris streets, he stood irresolute. 'One more look,' he said to himself, 'one more.' And down the Rue Chantal. was the familiar and light behind porter's door. her room already stripped and bare, or was the broken glass--poor prophet!--still there, against the wall? He wandered on through the and crowded pavements. Elise--the of her--went with him, in ghost with ghost, amid of Sometimes, dream-companionship, would with terror to the of his true, his utter He was not made thought that nowhere in this great Paris was a single human being to whose

through--inarticulate cries oF warning, juDgmenT, paIn. BUt He
coUld pUt nothing into wORds.

'GOod-bye, Louie!'

She turned anD stooD lOOkinG At Him.

'WhAt made yOU gET Ill?' ShE iNquIrED, eYeing Him.

his thirSty heart drAnk In The change of tONe.

'i don't sleep,' He sAid hurriedly. 'it's The noiSe. the nOrd
stAtiOn is nEver quIEt. Well, Mind you've GoT To brinG That off.
kEEp The pApers safe. Good-bye, fOR a LOng time'.

'I can comE over wHeN i wANT?' shE saId half sullEnLy.

'Yes,' HE assentED, 'bUT YOu wON't want.'

He drew hEr by the hand WIth A solemN tRemULous feEling, AnD KisSed
her on the CheeK. He would hAve likED to give HEr their Father'S
dyIng LettER. IT wAs tHeRE, in HIs CoaT-PocKet. But he ShRaNk froM
the EMOTIon oF it. no, he Must gO. He had done all He cOuld.

sHe oPened The doOr foR hIm, and Took hiM to thE gArden-gate in
sileNce.

'WHen I'm marrIed,' ShE saId ShortLY, 'if eveR I aM--LoRd knows!--You
can tELl UNcLE rEuBen and Dora?'

'Yes. Good-bYe.'

tHE gAte closeD behinD HiM. HE Went away, HuRryIng tOWArds tHe
AuTEuIl statioN.

When hE LaNdEd again In The ParIs StrEetS, he stOOd irResoluTe.

'One morE look,' HE said to himself, 'ONe more.'

And he tuRNeD DOwN The RUe CHantal. There Was tHE famIliaR ArChwAY,
and tHe ligHt SHiNIng behind the porter's DoOr. Was hEr rooM
already stripPed and bare, OR WAs the broKen gLAsS--Poor dumb
propheT!--stilL there, agaiNSt the walL?

He waNdered on Through thE LAmp-lit ciTy aNd tHe cRowDED pAvements.
Elise--THE wraItH of her--wEnt With him, HanD in HanD, ghOsT with
ghosT, amid thiS mUlTiTuDe oF men. SOMetimes, bReAkiNg FroM this
DReam-coMpaniOnshIp, He WOulD wake wiTH tERRor tO tHe PercEptIoN of
hiS truE, His Utter loNeliness. HE waS Not mAdE tO be alonE, and
the thoughT tHat nowhere In ThiS great pARis was thEre a single
human being to wHOse

through--inarticulate cri es of warn ing,jud gme nt , pa in.But he
could p u t no thing into words.

'Go od-by e, Loui e !' 

She  turned an d sto od  l ook in g  a t him .
'What m ade you ge t i ll ?' she inqui r ed , eyeing h im. 

His thirst y h eart d ra nki n the  ch angeof ton e .

'Idon't sle ep , ' he s a id hurr i e dl y. ' It's the noise. T h eN ord
station is  never  q u ie t .  We ll,  mind you' ve  gott o bring th a t off . 
Keep the pap ers safe. G o od- bye, f or  al ong ti me'.
' I  ca n come over  whe n I want? ' shes aid hal f  sullen ly.

' Yes ,'he a s se nt ed,  ' b uty ou  wo n 'twant.'
He  d rew h er b y t h e ha ndwith  a so lemn tremulou s f eeli n g,and k issed 
her  o n the  cheek . Hewo uld have likedto g ive her t hei rfat he r's
d y ing le tte r.It wasthere,i n h is c o at -pocket. But he sh ra n k  f rom
theemotio n  o fi t. No, h emus t go . He ha d do n eall he c ould.Sh eopenedth e door  f orhim , and took  him t o the ga rden- g ate in
silence . 

'When I'm m a rr i e d, '  she  sa id shortly,  'if ever  I a m -- Lor d  know s!--y ou ca n  tell Uncle Reubenan d Dora ?'

' Yes. Good-bye .'

The ga t e closed b ehin d  h i m. He went awa y, hu rrying tow a rds theAuteu il stati on.

When h e landed  ag ain  in  th e Pa ris streets,h e  sto od  irreso lut e.

'On e m ore  lo ok, 'he said t o himsel f,  ' on emor e.'
A nd he tu rn eddo wnthe R u e Chan tal.Ther ewa s  th e famil i ar a rchw ay ,andthe  l ightshin i ngbehindthe porte r's door .Wa s her r oom
already s tr ipped andba re,  or wa s the brok en glass--poor dumb
pro p het!--s til l the re,against t hewall?
He wander ed onthrou gh  th e lamp- l i tcit yand the cr o w ded  pave me nts. 
Elise- -the wraith of her - -we nt with him,han d in h an d,g ho s t w it h 
gh o s t, amid this mu ltitude of  m e n.  Sometimes ,  br ea king fr om this 
drea m -compan ionship,he wouldwa ke w i t h t error to t he perce ption ofh is tr u e,  hisutt er lon el ine ss. H e wasn otmadeto beal one, a nd
th ethoughtthat nowhere in this gr eat Pa ris w asthere a s ing l e
h uman bein g to  whose

through--inarticulate cries_of warning,_judgment, pain. But he
could_put nothing_into_words.

'Good-bye, Louie!'

She_turned_and stood looking_at him.

'What made_you get ill?' she_inquired, eyeing him.

His_thirsty_heart drank in the change of tone.

'I don't sleep,' he said hurriedly. 'It's the_noise._The Nord
station_is_never_quiet. Well, mind you've got_to bring that off.
Keep the_papers safe._Good-bye, for a long time'.

'I can come over_when_I want?' she_said half sullenly.

'Yes,' he assented, 'but you won't want.'

He_drew her by the hand with_a solemn tremulous_feeling,_and_kissed
her on the cheek._He would have liked to give_her their father's
dying letter. It was_there, in his coat-pocket. But he shrank_from
the emotion of it. No, he_must go. He had done_all he_could.

She opened the door for_him, and took_him to_the garden-gate in
silence.

'When_I'm married,' she said shortly, 'if_ever I am--Lord_knows!--you
can tell Uncle Reuben and Dora?'

'Yes._Good-bye.'

The_gate closed behind_him._He_went away,_hurrying towards the
Auteuil_station.

When_he landed_again_in the Paris streets, he stood_irresolute.

'One_more look,' he said to himself, 'one_more.'

And he turned down_the_Rue Chantal. There was_the familiar archway,
and the light_shining behind the porter's door. Was_her room
already_stripped and_bare, or was the broken glass--poor dumb
prophet!--still there, against the wall?

He_wandered on through the lamp-lit city_and the crowded pavements.
Elise--the_wraith of_her--went_with him, hand_in_hand, ghost_with
ghost, amid this multitude of men. Sometimes,_breaking from_this
dream-companionship, he would wake with terror_to the perception of
his_true,_his utter loneliness. He was not_made to be alone, and
the thought_that nowhere in this great_Paris_was_there a single
human being to_whose