aunt, Miss Dunois; only my younger daughter is with me in
Banbridge."

"Catherine Dunois?"

"Yes."

"I used to know her very well. She was a beauty, with the spirit of a
duchess."

"The spirit still survives," said Carroll, smiling.

"She must be quite old."

"Nearly eighty."

The elevator going up stopped in response to a signal from Fowler. He
extended his hand. "Well, good-day," said Fowler. "I am glad we
chanced to meet."

"Well, it is a small world," replied Carroll, smiling. "The chances
for meeting are much better than they would be, say, in Mars."

"Much better, and for hearing, also. Good-day."

"Good-day."

Carroll saw the elevator with its open sides of filigree iron,
ascending, and the expression upon Fowler's calm, handsome face,
gazing backward at him, was unmistakable. It was even mocking.

Carroll touched the electric button of one of the downward elevators,
and was soon carried rapidly down to the street door. He felt, as he
gained the street, that he would rather starve to death than ask a
favor of Fowler. He did not ask for pity, or even sympathy, in his
downfall, but he did ask for recognition of it as a common accident
that might befall mankind, and a consequent passing by with at least
the toleration of indifference from those not actively concerned in
it; but in this man's face had been something like exultation, even
gloating, Carroll thought to himself, as he went down the street, in
the childish way that Eddy might have done, with a sort of wonder,
reflecting that he never in his life, that he could remember, had
done Fowler, even indirectly, a bad turn. He might easily have been
totally indifferent to his misfortunes, to his failings, but why
should they have pleased him?

Carroll walked rapidly along the street until he reached Broadway
again. It was a strange day; a sort of snow-fog was abroad. The air
was dense and white. Now and then a mist of sleet fell, and the
sidewalks were horribly treacherous. The children enjoyed it, and
there were many boys and a few girls with tossing hair sliding along
with cries of merriment.

Carroll thought of Eddy as one little fellow, who did not look unlike
him, fairly slid into his arms.

"Look out, my boy," Carroll said, good-humoredly, keeping him from
falling, and the little fellow raised his cap with a charming blush
and a "Beg your pardon, sir." A miserable home-sickness for them came
over Carroll as he passed on. He longed for