wentieth Street and
Broadway. The afternoon had waned before he knew it, and the streets
were now filled with people returning from their day's work in offices
or in shops. On one side a newsboy was offering him the evening papers,
and on the other a man had thrust a bunch of half-faded violets into his
face.

As he stood now, hesitating for a moment beside the crossing, he became
dimly aware that he had passed quickly from one state of consciousness
into another, from the brief period of dream into the briefer transition
which precedes the awakening--and that there was a distinct gap between
his former and his present frame of mind. He _was_ awakening--this he
realised as he watched the crowd which surged rapidly by on either
side--and there came to him almost with the conviction a vivid
presentiment that the full return of his senses would bring at the same
time a clearer and a deeper conception of life. His short unhappiness
showed suddenly as a nightmare, and while he looked at the men and women
among whom he stood, he felt that the egoism of his love for Laura had
broadened into a generous stream of humanity which filled the world. The
personal had passed suddenly into the universal; the spirit of desire
had showed itself to be one with the spirit of pity; and the very agony
of the rebellion through which he had come appeared as he looked back
upon it to have enriched his consciousness of the tragedy in other
lives. To live close to mankind, to make a little easier the old worn
road, to stand shoulder to shoulder with the labourer at his toil, these
were the impulses which sprang like a new growth from his past selfish
longing. "Let me feel both the joy and the sorrow among which I move,"
was the prayer he now found strength to utter.

With renewed energy he turned to go onward, when, as he stepped upon the
crossing by which he stood, he saw that a woman at his side was weeping
softly, without noise, as she walked. Something of his old restraint,
his old embarrassment, checked him for a moment; then he saw that she
was poor and middle-aged and plainly clad, and he turned to speak to
her, though still with a slight hesitation.

"I wish you would do me the kindness to tell me your trouble," he said.

She stopped short in her walk and looked up with a nervous squint of her
eyes, while the undried tears were still visible on her large mottled
cheeks. As she stood there, timid and silent, before him, he saw that
the