untravelled, the approach to a great city for the first time is a
wonderful thing. Particularly if it be evening--that mystic
period between the glare and gloom of the world when life is
changing from one sphere or condition to another. Ah, the
promise of the night. What does it not hold for the weary! What
old illusion of hope is not here forever repeated! Says the soul
of the toiler to itself, "I shall soon be free. I shall be in
the ways and the hosts of the merry. The streets, the lamps, the
lighted chamber set for dining, are for me. The theatre, the
halls, the parties, the ways of rest and the paths of song--these
are mine in the night." Though all humanity be still enclosed in
the shops, the thrill runs abroad. It is in the air. The
dullest feel something which they may not always express or
describe. It is the lifting of the burden of toil.

Sister Carrie gazed out of the window. Her companion, affected
by her wonder, so contagious are all things, felt anew some
interest in the city and pointed out its marvels.

"This is Northwest Chicago," said Drouet. "This is the Chicago
River," and he pointed to a little muddy creek, crowded with the
huge masted wanderers from far-off waters nosing the black-posted
banks. With a puff, a clang, and a clatter of rails it was gone.
"Chicago is getting to be a great town," he went on. "It's a
wonder. You'll find lots to see here."

She did not hear this very well. Her heart was troubled by a
kind of terror. The fact that she was alone, away from home,
rushing into a great sea of life and endeavour, began to tell.
She could not help but feel a little choked for breath--a little