been standing and, meeting the eyes of the clerk, asked the young lady’s name.  He gave it, and waited for me to express the surprise he expected it to evoke.  But I felt none and showed none.  Other feelings had seized me.  I had heard of this gracious woman from many sources, in my life among the suffering masses of New York, and now that I had seen her and found her to be not only my ideal of personal loveliness but seemingly approachable and not uninterested in myself, I allowed my fancy to soar and my heart to become touched.  A fact which the clerk now confided to me naturally deepened the impression.  Miss Challoner had seen my name in the guest-book and asked to have me pointed out to her.  Perhaps she had heard my name spoken in the same quarter where I had heard hers.  We have never exchanged confidences on the subject, and I cannot say.  I can only give you my reason for the interest I felt in Miss Challoner and why I forgot, in the glamour of this episode, the aims and purposes of a not unambitious life and the distance which the world and the so-called aristocratic class put between a woman of her wealth and standing and a simple worker like myself.

“I must be pardoned.  She had smiled upon me once, and she smiled again.  Days before we were formally presented, I caught her softened look turned my way, as we passed each other in hall or corridor.  We were friends, or so it appeared to me, before ever a word passed between us, and when fortune favoured us and we were duly introduced, our minds met in a strange sympathy which made this one interview a memorable one to me.  Unhappily, as I then considered it, this was my last day at the hotel, and our conversation, interrupted frequently by passing acquaintances, was never resumed.  I exchanged a few words with her by way of good-bye but nothing more.  I came to New York, and she remained in Lenox.  A month after and she too came to New York.”

“This good-bye—­do you remember it?  The exact language, I mean?”

“I do; it made a great impression on me.  ’I shall hope for our further acquaintance,’ she said.  ’We have one very strong interest in common.’  And if ever a human face spoke eloquently, it was hers at that moment.  The interest, as I understood it, was our mutual sympathy for our toiling, half-starved, down-trodden brothers and sisters in the lower streets of this city; but the eloquence—­that I probably mistook.  I thought it sprang from personal interest, and it gave me courage to pursue the intention which had taken the place of every other feeling and ambition by which I had hitherto been moved.  Here was a woman in a thousand; one who could make a man of me indeed.  If she could ignore the social gulf between us, I felt free to take the leap.  Cowardice had never been a fault of mine.  But I was no fool even then.  I realised that I must first let her see the manner of man I was and what life meant to me and must mean to her if the union I contemplated should become an actual fact.  I wrote letters to her, but I did not give her my address or even request a reply.  I was not ready for any word from her.  I am not like other men and I could wait.  And I did, for weeks, then I suddenly appeared at her hotel.”