“The spirit still survives,” said Carroll, smiling.

“She must be quite old.”

“Nearly eighty.”

The elevator going up stopped in response to a signal from Fowler.  He extended his hand.  “Well, good-day,” said Fowler.  “I am glad we chanced to meet.”

“Well, it is a small world,” replied Carroll, smiling.  “The chances for meeting are much better than they would be, say, in Mars.”

“Much better, and for hearing, also.  Good-day.”

“Good-day.”

Carroll saw the elevator with its open sides of filigree iron, ascending, and the expression upon Fowler’s calm, handsome face, gazing backward at him, was unmistakable.  It was even mocking.

Carroll touched the electric button of one of the downward elevators, and was soon carried rapidly down to the street door.  He felt, as he gained the street, that he would rather starve to death than ask a favor of Fowler.  He did not ask for pity, or even sympathy, in his downfall, but he did ask for recognition of it as a common accident that might befall mankind, and a consequent passing by with at least the toleration of indifference from those not actively concerned in it; but in this man’s face had been something like exultation, even gloating, Carroll thought to himself, as he went down the street, in the childish way that Eddy might have done, with a sort of wonder, reflecting that he never in his life, that he could remember, had done Fowler, even indirectly, a bad turn.  He might easily have been totally indifferent to his misfortunes, to his failings, but why should they have pleased him?

Carroll walked rapidly along the street until he reached Broadway again.  It was a strange day; a sort of snow-fog was abroad.  The air was dense and white.  Now and then a mist of sleet fell, and the sidewalks were horribly treacherous.  The children enjoyed it, and there were many boys and a few girls with tossing hair sliding along with cries of merriment.

Carroll thought of Eddy as one little fellow, who did not look unlike him, fairly slid into his arms.

“Look out, my boy,” Carroll said, good-humoredly, keeping him from falling, and the little fellow raised his cap with a charming blush and a “Beg your pardon, sir.”  A miserable home-sickness for them came over Carroll as he passed on.  He longed for the sight of his boy, or his wife and Anna.  He had grown, in a manner, accustomed to Ina being away.  There is something about marriage and the absence it causes that brings one into the state of acquiescence concerning death.  But he longed for the others, and he thought of his poor little Charlotte at home all day, and her loneliness.  He looked at his watch, and realized that he must hurry if he caught the train which would take him to Banbridge at six o’clock.  He had one more place on his list, and that was far up-town.  He crossed to the Elevated station and boarded the first up-town train.  What he was about to do was, in a way,