a murmur of recognition. At
last the bars grated inside and the crowd pricked up its ears. Footsteps
shuffled 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, with
grim, beast silence to prove its quality, and then it melted inward,
like logs floating, and disappeared. There were wet hats and wet
shoulders, a cold, shrunken, disgruntled mass, pouring in between bleak
walls. It was just six o'clock and there was supper in every hurrying
pedestrian's face. And yet no supper was provided here--nothing but
beds.

Hurstwood laid down his fifteen cents and crept off with weary steps to
his allotted room. It was a dingy affair--wooden, dusty, hard. A small
gas-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 with
his coat, and tucked it along the crack under the door. His vest he
arranged in the same place. His old wet, cracked hat he laid softly upon
the 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 gas
out, standing calmly in the blackness, hidden from view. After a few
moments, in which he reviewed nothing, but merely hesitated, he turned
the gas on again, but applied no match. Even then he stood there, hidden
wholly in that kindness which is night, while the uprising fumes filled
the room. When the odour reached his nostrils, he quit his attitude and
fumbled 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's
object, or, at least, such fraction of it as human beings ever attain of
their original desires. She could look about on her gowns and carriage,
her furniture and bank account. Friends there were, as the world takes
it--those who would bow and smile in acknowledgment of her success. For
these she had once craved. Applause there was, and publicity--once far
off, essential things, but now grown trivial and indifferent.
Beauty also--her type of loveliness--and yet she was lonely. In her
rocking-chair she sat, when not otherwise engaged--singing and dreaming.

Thus in life there is ever the intellectual and the emotional
nature--the mind that reasons, and the mind that feels. Of one come
the men of action--generals and statesmen; of the