noisome traffic of the street, the raucous clang of trolley bells--the
sweet perfume of the, fields, the smell of trees, of earth, of all of
God's pure things untouched, unsoiled; the stench of Chatham Square,
the reek of whiskey spilled with the breath of obscene, filthy lips--the
little village that he could see beyond him, the tiny curls of blue
smoke rising like the incense from an altar over the roofs of houses
whose doors had no locks, whose windows were not barred, where plain,
homely folk, unsullied, lived at peace with God and the world; the
closed areaways of the Bowery, the creaking stairs, the dim hallways
leading to dens of vileness and iniquity where, safe by bolts from
interruption, crime bred its offsprings and vice was hatched. What did
it mean!

And so he stood there for a little space; then presently he started
forward again; and presently he reached the village street, walked down
its length, greeted from every doorway with hearty, unaffected
sincerity, and after a little while he came to the hotel, and to his
room--and there he locked the door.

Helena was straight--the words were repeating themselves over and over
in his brain. He began to pace up and down the room. The words seemed to
take form and shape in fiery red letters, being scrawled by invisible
hands upon the walls--_Helena was straight_. Straight with Thornton,
straight with any man--straight with her Maker. He knew that now--he had
read it as a soul-truth in those brave, deep, tear-dimmed eyes. And he
had _lost_ her! It seemed as though he had become suddenly conscious
that he was enduring some agony that was never to know an end, that
from now on must be with him always. He had lost her--lost Helena.

From his pocket he drew out his keys and opened his trunks, and took out