e
would be few people and little glare, and as he walked unconsciously
he repeated over and over to himself: "Dorothea has just told me. I
am so sorry."

"Mister, please, sir, buy a paper?" He stopped abruptly. The boy in
front of him stamped first one foot and then the other, and the hand
he held out was rough and red. Drawing it back he blew on it for a
little warmth.

"What are you doing out this time of night?" Laine asked the question
hardly knowing why. "You ought to be home in bed."

"Ain't got no home." The boy laughed cheerfully, and again put his
fist to his mouth and blew upon it. "I'm sleepin' with another boy
this week, but I have to pay him. Please buy a paper, Mister!"

Under his breath Laine caught himself saying something, then handed
the boy a piece of money and passed on. Where was he, anyhow?
Surely he was in no mood for the life of this neighborhood. It was
one he had seldom been in, and as he looked at its houses dull wonder
filled him as to their occupants. To keep breath in their bodies
meant sordid struggle and bitter strife, but possibly they were
happy. Certainly he had long since learned the possession of mere
material things did not mean happiness. He had long since learned a
great many things it was unfortunate to know.

A clock in the church near by struck ten, and turning he went over
into the Avenue and began his walk up-town. As he reached Madison
Square he looked at the empty benches and wondered as to the fate of
the derelicts who daily filled them in warm weather, and wondered if
they, too, wondered what it was all for--this thing called life.

In contrast to the traffic of the day the stillness of the Avenue was
puzzling. Only the whir of an automobile or the occasional hoofbeats
of a cab-horse broke the silence, and hardly less dark than the
tenements just passed were its handsome houses, with their closed
shutters and drawn curtains, and the restless occupants therein. As
he reached the Park he stopped, hesitated, and lighted a fresh cigar.
Three squares away was his sister's house, and in it was the girl
with the fresh, clear voice. He took the note she had sent him out
of his pocket, and in the light hanging just above him looked again
at the firm, clear writing, then put it back. Did she, too, wonder
at life, at its emptiness and aimlessness? Her voice did not sound
as if she were tired of it or found it wearisome. It sounded like a
very happy voice.