ead something about
it in Mr. Haweis's book long ago. Too tired to follow the orchestra with
much understanding, she crouched down in her seat and closed her eyes.
The cold, stately measures of the Walhalla music rang out, far away; the
rainbow bridge throbbed out into the air, under it the wailing of the
Rhine daughters and the singing of the Rhine. But Thea was sunk in
twilight; it was all going on in another world. So it happened that with
a dull, almost listless ear she heard for the first time that troubled
music, ever-darkening, ever-brightening, which was to flow through so
many years of her life.

When Thea emerged from the concert hall, Mrs. Lorch's predictions had
been fulfilled. A furious gale was beating over the city from Lake
Michigan. The streets were full of cold, hurrying, angry people, running
for street-cars and barking at each other. The sun was setting in a
clear, windy sky, that flamed with red as if there were a great fire
somewhere on the edge of the city. For almost the first time Thea was
conscious of the city itself, of the congestion of life all about her,
of the brutality and power of those streams that flowed in the streets,
threatening to drive one under. People jostled her, ran into her, poked
her aside with their elbows, uttering angry exclamations. She got on the
wrong car and was roughly ejected by the conductor at a windy corner, in
front of a saloon. She stood there dazed and shivering. The cars passed,
screaming as they rounded curves, but either they were full to the
doors, or were bound for places where she did not want to go. Her hands
were so cold that she took off her tight kid gloves. The street lights
began to gleam in the dusk. A young man came out of the saloon and stood
eyeing her questioningly while he lit a cigarette. "Looking for a friend
to-night?" he asked. Thea drew up the collar of her cape and walked on a
few paces. The young man shrugged his shoulders and drifted away.

Thea came back to the corner and stood there irresolutely. An old man
approached her. He, too, seemed to be waiting for a car. He wore an
overcoat with a black fur collar, his gray mustache was waxed into
little points, and his eyes were watery. He kept thrusting his face up
near hers. Her hat blew off and he ran after it--a stiff, pitiful skip
he had--and brought it back to her. Then, while she was pinning her hat
on, her cape blew up, and he held it down for her, looking at her
intently. His fac