fternoon surprised him even an
hour later, say at six o'clock, which he could very well have done, for
Carlin did not close his shop until seven, he would have come upon
him with the same letter in his hand, his whole mind absorbed in its
contents, especially the last paragraph: "Be here at seven o'clock,
sharp; don't ring the bell below, just rap twice and I shall know it is
you. I have to be very careful who I let in."

It had been several weeks since Carlin had heard from his sister. She
had called at the store on her return from Canada, where she had spent
the summer, and he had helped her find a small suite of rooms on a side
street off St. Mark's Place, which she subsequently occupied, but since
then she had never crossed his threshold. At first she had kept him
advised of her nursing engagements--the days when her work carried her
out of town, or the addresses of those who needed her in the city.
These brief communications having entirely ceased, he had decided in his
anxiety to look her up and, strange to say, on that very night. That
his hand trembled and his rough, weather-browned face became tinged with
color as he read her letter to the end, turning the page and reading the
whole a second time, would have surprised anybody who knew the stern,
silent old sailor. His clerk, a thin, long-necked young man wearing
a paper collar and green necktie, noticed his agitation and guessed
wrong--Carlin being a confirmed old bachelor. And so did the driver
of the wagon, who had to wait for his receipt and who, wondering at
Stephen's emotion, would have asked what the letter was all about had
not the ship-chandler, after consulting his watch, crammed the envelope
into his side pocket, jumped to his feet, and shouted to the Paper
Collar to "roll the stuff off that sidewalk and get everything stowed
away, as he was going up to St. Mark's Place."

Here and there in the whir of the great city a restful breathing-spot
is found, its stretch of grass dotted with moss-covered tombs grouped
around a low-pitched church. At certain hours the sound of bells is
heard and the low rhythm of the organ throbbing through the aisles. Then
lines of quietly dressed worshippers stroll along the bordered walks,
the children's hands fast in their mothers' the arched vestibule-door
closing upon them.

Most of these oases, like Trinity, St. Paul's, and St. Mark's, differ
but little--the same low-pitched church, the same slender spire, the
sa