room on the plan of the
Norumbia and said it had just been given up, and they could have it if
they decided to take it at once.

They looked, and it was in the very place of their room on the
Colmannia; it was within one of being the same number. It was so
providential, if it was providential at all, that they were both humbly
silent a moment; even Mrs. March was silent. In this supreme moment she
would not prompt her husband by a word, a glance, and it was from his
own free will that he said, "We will take it."

He thought it was his free will, but perhaps one's will is never free;
and this may have been an instance of pure determinism from all the
events before it. No event that followed affected it, though the day
after they had taken their passage on the Norumbia he heard that she
had once been in the worst sort of storm in the month of August. He
felt obliged to impart the fact to his wife, but she said that it proved
nothing for or against the ship, and confounded him more by her reason
than by all her previous unreason. Reason is what a man is never
prepared for in women; perhaps because he finds it so seldom in men.

V.

During nearly the whole month that now passed before the date of sailing
it seemed to March that in some familiar aspects New York had never been
so interesting. He had not easily reconciled himself to the place after
his many years of Boston; but he had got used to the ugly grandeur, to
the noise and the rush, and he had divined more and more the careless
good-nature and friendly indifference of the vast, sprawling, ungainly
metropolis. There were happy moments when he felt a poetry unintentional
and unconscious in it, and he thought there was no point more favorable
for the sense of this than Stuyvesant Square, where they had a flat.
Their windows looked down into its tree-tops, and across them to
the truncated towers of St. George's, and to the plain red-brick,
white-trimmed front of the Friends' Meeting House; he came and went
between his dwelling and his office through the two places that form the
square, and after dinner his wife and he had a habit of finding seats by
one of the fountains in Livingston Place, among the fathers and mothers
of the hybrid East Side children swarming there at play. The elders read
their English or Italian or German or Yiddish journals, or gossiped,
or merely sat still and stared away the day's fatigue; while the little
ones raced in and out among the