omes.

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 and
gloom of the world when life is changing from one sphere or condition
to another. Ah, the promise of the night. What does it not hold for the
weary! What old illusion of hope is not here forever repeated! Says the
soul of the toiler to itself, "I shall soon be free. I shall be in the
ways and the hosts of the merry. The streets, the lamps, the lighted
chamber 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 runs
abroad. It is in the air. The dullest feel something which they may not
always express or describe. It is the lifting of the burden of toil.

Sister Carrie gazed out of the window. Her companion, affected by her
wonder, so contagious are all things, felt anew some interest in the
city 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 masted
wanderers from far-off waters nosing the black-posted banks. With a
puff, a clang, and a clatter of rails it was gone. "Chicago is getting
to be a great town," he went on. "It's a wonder. You'll find lots to see
here."

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

"Chicago! Chicago!" called the brakeman, slamming open the door. They
were rushing into a more crowded yard, alive with the clatter and clang
of life. She began to gather up her poor little grip and closed her hand
firmly upon her purse. Drouet arose, kicked his legs to straighten his
trousers, and seized his clean yellow grip.

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

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

"All right," he said in all kindness. "I'll be near, though, in case she
isn't he