walked to the other side of the room.
The boy did not know what to say or do, so he sat silent. With a
deliberate movement Emerson resumed his seat, and slowly his eyes roamed
over the boy sitting at the side of the desk. He felt he should say
something.

"I thought, perhaps, Mr. Emerson," he said, "that you might be able to
favor me with a letter from Carlyle."

At the mention of the name Carlyle his eyes lifted, and he asked:
"Carlyle, did you say, sir, Carlyle?"

"Yes," said the boy, "Thomas Carlyle."

"Ye-es," Emerson answered slowly. "To be sure, Carlyle. Yes, he was here
this morning. He will be here again to-morrow morning," he added
gleefully, almost like a child.

Then suddenly: "You were saying--"

Edward repeated his request.

"Oh, I think so, I think so," said Emerson, to the boy's astonishment.
"Let me see. Yes, here in this drawer I have many letters from Carlyle."

At these words Miss Alcott came from the other part of the room, her wet
eyes dancing with pleasure and her face wreathed in smiles.

"I think we can help this young man; do you not think so, Louisa?" said
Emerson, smiling toward Miss Alcott. The whole atmosphere of the room
had changed. How different the expression of his eyes as now Emerson
looked at the boy! "And you have come all the way from New York to ask
me that!" he said smilingly as the boy told him of his trip. "Now, let
us see," he said, as he delved in a drawer full of letters.

For a moment he groped among letters and papers, and then, softly
closing the drawer, he began that ominous low whistle once more, looked
inquiringly at each, and dropped his eyes straightway to the papers
before him on his desk. It was to be only for a few moments, then Miss
Alcott turned away.

The boy felt the interview could not last much longer. So, anxious to
have some personal souvenir of the meeting, he said: "Mr. Emerson, will
you be so good as to write your name in this book for me?" and he
brought out an album he had in his pocket.

"Name?" he asked vaguely.

"Yes, please," said the boy, "your name: Ralph Waldo Emerson."

But the sound of the name brought no response from the eyes.

"Please write out the name you want," he said finally, "and I will copy
it for you if I can."

It was hard for the boy to believe his own senses. But picking up a pen
he wrote: "Ralph Waldo Emerson, Concord; November 22, 1881."

Emerson looked at it, and said mournfully: "Thank you." Then he pick