Chicago was not long in discovering that Douglas, the marvelous boy, was in their midst.  He must make an address.  They erected a platform and billed the town.  I stayed near until Douglas rose to speak.  He looked fresh and tidy in his new suit, and with freshly shaven face.  I heard his great voice roll out over the large crowd collected to hear him.  I heard the applause that welcomed him, that responded to the first thrill of his fluent eloquence.  Then I stole away to look for Zoe.

I walked up and down the streets.  I stood in drinking places.  I entered a few places of vice.  I stopped at the rear of a hotel, where the maids were gathered together resting and talking after the day’s work.  But no Zoe.

At last I went down to the shore of the lake, rather to the shore of the sluice through which the Chicago River widened into the lake in a southerly direction.  I sat here on a rude settee.  The air was warm.  There were sounds and voices floating over me from the town.  Occasionally I could hear the organ music of Douglas’ oratory, as it drifted indistinguishably to me.  I was thinking, wondering about my own life; enthralled at the vision of this new country, which I could see taking form before my own eyes.  Then I became conscious of a couple on a settee near.  I had not noticed them before.  I got up and walked past them.  And there was Zoe!

It was dusk, but she knew me.  She gave a quick start, put her hand to her mouth.  The man was silent, looking at her, unconscious of my presence.  I divined that she did not want me to speak to her.  I heard her say to her companion:  “Go back.  Leave me here awhile, I want to be alone.  I will return soon.”

I walked on a distance of a hundred yards or more.  Then I looked back.  I thought some one, Zoe, or both of them were still on the settee.  I could not be sure.  I retraced my steps.  When I came to the settee the man was some distance away, going toward the town.  Zoe motioned to me to walk the way I had come.  I did so; loitered and returned.  Zoe was now alone.  I sat down beside her; Zoe took my hand.

My first thought was who was the man.  Zoe proceeded to tell me that she was working as a domestic, that this man was a voice teacher who had recently arrived in Chicago from New York.  I looked at Zoe, as if to ask her what was the nature of the intimacy that would lead her into this association at night in this secluded place by the lake.  I followed this by asking:  “Are you very good friends?” “He is kind to me,” Zoe said.  “He teaches me and we walk out together and talk.”

Well, were there not then the usual consequences?  Zoe was remarkably beautiful; Zoe’s morale had been broken by a terrible experience.  She had gone through the disintegration natural to my own difficulties, of which she was the occasion; the killing of Lamborn, the whole condition at Jacksonville.  And now, what was Zoe?  I could not penetrate her reserve.  She stroked my hands affectionately.  The tears started from her eyes.