Then suddenly:  “You were saying——­”

Edward repeated his request.

“Oh, I think so, I think so,” said Emerson, to the boy’s astonishment.  “Let me see.  Yes, here in this drawer I have many letters from Carlyle.”

At these words Miss Alcott came from the other part of the room, her wet eyes dancing with pleasure and her face wreathed in smiles.

“I think we can help this young man; do you not think so, Louisa?” said Emerson, smiling toward Miss Alcott.  The whole atmosphere of the room had changed.  How different the expression of his eyes as now Emerson looked at the boy!  “And you have come all the way from New York to ask me that!” he said smilingly as the boy told him of his trip.  “Now, let us see,” he said, as he delved in a drawer full of letters.

For a moment he groped among letters and papers, and then, softly closing the drawer, he began that ominous low whistle once more, looked inquiringly at each, and dropped his eyes straightway to the papers before him on his desk.  It was to be only for a few moments, then!  Miss Alcott turned away.

The boy felt the interview could not last much longer.  So, anxious to have some personal souvenir of the meeting, he said:  “Mr. Emerson, will you be so good as to write your name in this book for me?” and he brought out an album he had in his pocket.

“Name?” he asked vaguely.

“Yes, please,” said the boy, “your name:  Ralph Waldo Emerson.”

But the sound of the name brought no response from the eyes.

“Please write out the name you want,” he said finally, “and I will copy it for you if I can.”

It was hard for the boy to believe his own senses.  But picking up a pen he wrote:  “Ralph Waldo Emerson, Concord; November 22, 1881.”

Emerson looked at it, and said mournfully:  “Thank you.”  Then he picked up the pen, and writing the single letter “R” stopped, followed his finger until it reached the “W” of Waldo, and studiously copied letter by letter!  At the word “Concord” he seemed to hesitate, as if the task were too great, but finally copied again, letter by letter, until the second “c” was reached.  “Another ‘o,’” he said, and interpolated an extra letter in the name of the town which he had done so much to make famous the world over.  When he had finished he handed back the book, in which there was written: 

[Illustration:  Ralph Waldo Emerson’s signature.]

The boy put the book into his pocket; and as he did so Emerson’s eye caught the slip on his desk, in the boy’s handwriting, and, with a smile of absolute enlightenment, he turned and said;

“You wish me to write my name?  With pleasure.  Have you a book with you?”

Overcome with astonishment, Edward mechanically handed him the album once more from his pocket.  Quickly turning over the leaves, Emerson picked up the pen, and pushing aside the slip, wrote without a moment’s hesitation: