mply
not have dreamed he had ever seen them. He knew them only in their
frames. As for the middle-aged man at the book-keeper's desk, he
disturbed him in a way that he would not admit to himself. He spoke
to him rather curtly. If he could avoid speaking to him he did so. He
had a way of sending directions to the book-keeper by the young man.
The book-keeper, if he also surmised Carroll's private life, gave no
sign, although he had ample time. He sat at his desk faithfully from
eight o'clock until half-past four, but the work which he had to do
was somewhat amazing to a mind which stopped to reason. Sometimes
even this man, who understood the world in general as a place to be
painfully clambered and tramped and even crawled over, to the
accomplishment of the ulterior end of remaining upon it at all, and
who paid very little attention to other people's affairs, except as
they directly concerned the tragic pettiness of his own, wondered a
little at the nature of the accounts which he faithfully kept.

This book-keeper, whose name was William Allbright, lived in Harlem,
so far up that it seemed fairly in the country, and on the second
floor of a small, ancient building which, indeed, belonged to the
period when Harlem was country and which remained between two modern
apartment houses. The book-keeper had a half-right in a little green
backyard, wherein flourished with considerable energy an aged
cherry-tree, from which the tenants always fondly hoped for cherries.
The cherries never materialized, but the hope was something. The
book-keeper's elder sister, who kept house for him, was fond of
gazing at the cherry-tree, with its scanty spread of white blossoms,
and dreaming of cherries. She was the fonder because she had almost
no dreams left. It is rather sad that even dreams go, as well as
actualities. However, the sister seemed not to mind so very much.
Very little, except the pleasure which she took in watching the
cherry-tree, gave evidence that she lamented anything that she had
lost or merely missed in life. In general she had an air of such
utter placidity and acquiescence that it almost amounted to numbness.
The book-keeper at this time of year scratched away every evening
with a hoe and trowel in his half of the backyard, where he was
making a tiny garden-patch.

The garden represented to him, as the tree did to his sister, his one
ladder by which his earthly dreams might climb higher. One night he
came home and t