d left it. What was Jonas Lyle doing and John
Summers? Myrtle wrote that she was going to be married in the spring.
She had delayed solely because she wanted to delay. He thought sometimes
that Myrtle was a little like himself, fickle in her moods. He was sure
he would never want to go back to Alexandria except for a short visit,
and yet the thought of his father and his mother and his old home were
sweet to him. His father! How little he knew of the real world!

As they passed out of Pittsburgh he saw for the first time the great
mountains, raising their heads in solemn majesty in the dark, and great
lines of coke ovens, flaming red tongues of fire. He saw men working,
and sleeping towns succeeding one another. What a great country America
was! What a great thing to be an artist here! Millions of people and no
vast artistic voice to portray these things--these simple dramatic
things like the coke ovens in the night. If he could only do it! If he
could only stir the whole country, so that his name would be like that
of Dore in France or Verestchagin in Russia. If he could but get fire
into his work, the fire he felt!

He got into his berth after a time and looked out on the dark night and
the stars, longing, and then he dozed. When he awoke again the train had
already passed Philadelphia. It was morning and the cars were speeding
across the flat meadows toward Trenton. He arose and dressed, watching
the array of towns the while, Trenton, New Brunswick, Metuchen,
Elizabeth. Somehow this country was like Illinois, flat. After Newark
they rushed out upon a great meadow and he caught the sense of the sea.
It was beyond this. These were tide-water streams, the Passaic and the
Hackensack, with small ships and coal and brick barges tied at the water
side. The thrill of something big overtook him as the brakeman began to
call "Jersey City," and as he stepped out into the vast train shed his
heart misgave him a little. He was all alone in New York. It was
wealthy, cold and critical. How should he prosper here? He walked out
through the gates to where low arches concealed ferry boats, and in
another moment it was before him, sky line, bay, the Hudson, the Statue
of Liberty, ferry boats, steamers, liners, all in a grey mist of fierce
rain and the tugs and liners blowing mournfully upon great whistles. It
was something he could never have imagined without seeing it, and this
swish of real salt water, rolling in heavy waves, spoke t