She had called at the store on her return from Canada, where she had spent the summer, and he had helped her find a small suite of rooms on a side street off St.Mark's Place, which she subsequently occupied, but since then she had never crossed his threshold.

At first she had kept him advised of her nursing engagements--the days when her work carried her out of town, or the addresses of those who needed her in the city.
These brief communications having entirely ceased, he had decided in his anxiety to look her up and, strange to say, on that very night.

That his hand trembled and his rough, weather-browned face became tinged with color as he read her letter to the end, turning the page and reading the whole a second time, would have surprised anybody who knew the stern, silent old sailor.

His clerk, a thin, long-necked young man wearing a paper collar and green necktie, noticed his agitation and guessed wrong--Carlin being a confirmed old bachelor.

And so did the driver of the wagon, who had to wait for his receipt and who, wondering at Stephen's emotion, would have asked what the letter was all about had not the ship-chandler, after consulting his watch, crammed the envelope into his side pocket, jumped to his feet, and shouted to the Paper Collar to "roll the stuff off that sidewalk and get everything stowed away, as he was going up to St.Mark's Place." Here and there in the whir of the great city a restful breathing-spot is found, its stretch of grass dotted with moss-covered tombs grouped around a low-pitched church.