ces. Then March said, "I must go after him," and
left his wife standing.

"Are you in want--hungry?" he asked the man.

The man said he could not speak English, Monsieur.

March asked his question in French.

The man shrugged a pitiful, desperate shrug, "Mais, Monsieur--"

March put a coin in his hand, and then suddenly the man's face twisted
up; he caught the hand of this alms-giver in both of his and clung to
it. "Monsieur! Monsieur!" he gasped, and the tears rained down his face.

His benefactor pulled himself away, shocked and ashamed, as one is by
such a chance, and got back to his wife, and the man lapsed back into
the mystery of misery out of which he had emerged.

March felt it laid upon him to console his wife for what had happened.
"Of course, we might live here for years and not see another case like
that; and, of course, there are twenty places where he could have gone
for help if he had known where to find them."

"Ah, but it's the possibility of his needing the help so badly as that,"
she answered. "That's what I can't bear, and I shall not come to a
place where such things are possible, and we may as well stop our
house-hunting here at once."

"Yes? And what part of Christendom will you live in? Such things are
possible everywhere in our conditions."

"Then we must change the conditions--"

"Oh no; we must go to the theatre and forget them. We can stop at
Brentano's for our tickets as we pass through Union Square."

"I am not going to the theatre, Basil. I am going home to Boston
to-night. You can stay and find a flat."

He convinced her of the absurdity of her position, and even of its
selfishness; but she said that her mind was quite made up irrespective
of what had happened, that she had been away from the children long
enough; that she ought to be at home to finish up the work of leaving
it. The word brought a sigh. "Ah, I don't know why we should see nothing
but sad and ugly things now. When we were young--"

"Younger," he put in. "We're still young."

"That's what we pretend, but we know better. But I was thinking how
pretty and pleasant things used to be turning up all the time on our
travels in the old days. Why, when we were in New York here on our
wedding journey the place didn't seem half so dirty as it does now, and
none of these dismal things happened."

"It was a good deal dirtier," he answered; "and I fancy worse in every
way-hungrier, raggeder, more wretchedly housed. Bu