ry and translucent to the eye. There was a softness in the
air which speaks with an infinite delicacy of feeling to the flesh
as well as to the soul. Carrie felt that it was a lovely day. She was
ripened by it in spirit for many suggestions. As they drove along the
smooth pavement an occasional carriage passed. She saw one stop and
the footman dismount, opening the door for a gentleman who seemed to
be leisurely returning from some afternoon pleasure. Across the broad
lawns, now first freshening into green, she saw lamps faintly glowing
upon rich interiors. Now it was but a chair, now a table, now an ornate
corner, which met her eye, but it appealed to her as almost nothing else
could. Such childish fancies as she had had of fairy palaces and kingly
quarters now came back. She imagined that across these richly carved
entrance-ways, where the globed and crystalled lamps shone upon panelled
doors set with stained and designed panes of glass, was neither care nor
unsatisfied desire. She was perfectly certain that here was happiness.
If she could but stroll up yon broad walk, cross that rich entrance-way,
which to her was of the beauty of a jewel, and sweep in grace and luxury
to possession and command--oh! how quickly would sadness flee; how, in
an instant, would the heartache end. She gazed and gazed, wondering,
delighting, longing, and all the while the siren voice of the unrestful
was whispering in her ear.

"If we could have such a home as that," said Mrs. Hale sadly, "how
delightful it would be."

"And yet they do say," said Carrie, "that no one is ever happy."

She had heard so much of the canting philosophy of the grapeless fox.

"I notice," said Mrs. Hale, "that they all try mighty hard, though, to
take their misery in a mansion."

When she came to her own rooms, Carrie saw their comparative
insignificance. She was not so dull but that she could perceive
they were but three small rooms in a moderately well-furnished
boarding-house. She was not contrasting it now with what she had had,
but what she had so recently seen. The glow of the palatial doors was
still in her eye, the roll of cushioned carriages still in her ears.
What, after all, was Drouet? What was she? At her window, she thought it
over, rocking to and fro, and gazing out across the lamp-lit park toward
the lamp-lit houses on Warren and Ashland avenues. She was too wrought
up to care to go down to eat, too pensive to do aught but rock and sing.
Some