Then the man turned, and his half-scared, half-defiant face fronted Carroll.  He growled an inarticulate inquiry.

“Come back here!” repeated Carroll.

The tramp came slowly, suspiciously, one hand slyly lifted as one sees a wary animal with a paw ready for possible attack.

“Wait here,” said Carroll, indicating the stoop with a gesture, “and I will see if I can find something for you to eat.”

The man reached the door and paused, and remained standing, still with that wary lift of hand and foot in readiness for defence or flight, while Carroll rummaged in the pantry, which was a lean larder.  At last he emerged with half a pie and a piece of cake.  He extended them to the tramp, who viewed them critically and mumbled something about meat.

“Take these and clear out, or leave them and clear out!” shouted Carroll, and again the sense of exhilaration was over him.

The man took the proffered food and slunk rapidly out of the yard.

Carroll laughed, and closed and bolted the kitchen door, which Marie had left unlocked.  Then he returned to the den and sat down with the morning paper and a cigar.  He skimmed over the contents, the rumors of wars, and cruelties, the Wall Street items, the burglaries, the fires, the defalcations, the suicides, the stresses of the world, creation old, enduring in their fluctuations and recurrences like the sea, beating with the same force upon the hearts of every new generation.  Carroll, as he sat there idly smoking, fell to thinking abstractedly in that vein.  He had a conception of a possible ocean of elemental emotion, of joy and passion, of crime and agony and greed, ever swelling and ebbing upon the shores of humanity.  He had a mind of psychological cast, although it had been turned of a necessity into other channels.  Finally he turned wholly to himself and his own difficulties, which had reached possibly the worst crisis of his life.  He had never been in such a hard place as this.  He had heretofore seen a loop-hole out, into another labyrinth in the end, it is true, still a way out.  Now he saw none except one; that was into a fiery torture, and whether it was or was not the torture of beneficial sacrifice he could not tell.

As he sat there his face grew older with the laboring of his mind over the track of his failures and over the certain difficulties of the future.  He sat there all the morning.  Noon came, but he did not think of food, although he had eaten little that morning.  He lit another cigar and took up the paper again, and read an account of the suicide of a bank defaulter by shooting himself through the brain.  He fell to thinking of suicide in his own case, as a means of egress from his own difficulties, but he thought idly, rather as a means of amusement, and not with the slightest seriousness.  He had a well-balanced brain naturally, and maintained the balance even in the midst of misfortune.  However, a balance,