driving all night. Here and there came a drover with a few animals
intended for the cattle-market. The animals did not like the town, and
constantly became restive, hitching themselves round lamp-posts or
getting across the tram-lines. The newspaper-women trudged from street-
door to street-door with their aprons laden with morning papers, and he
heard them toiling up the stairs as though their feet were weighted with
lead. And beneath all this could be heard the endless tramp-tramp of
workmen hastening to their work.

There was a peculiarly familiar sound in those footsteps, which suddenly
reminded him that he no longer belonged to their party, but had marked
out his own way for good and evil.

Why was he not still a small, impersonal fraction of this great stream
which day after day mechanically followed the same round in the mill?
Solitude had made his view of mankind a new and wondering one; he now,
in every strange face he met, involuntarily sought for a little of that
which makes each individual a world in himself. But these men were all
alike, he thought; they came hurrying out of the darkness of the side
streets, and were not fully awake and steady on their feet until they
joined the throng, but then they did walk capitally. He recognized the
firm beat again: he had himself taught it to them.

Daylight came stealing in over Vesterbro, gray and heavy with spring
moisture and the city smoke. That part of the town was not quite awake
yet; the step sounding in the main street was that of the belated night-
wanderer. He turned down Victoria Street, looking about him in surprise;
he had never been here before. He read the door-plates: Artists' Bureau,
Artisan Heim, Lodging for Artists, Masseur & Chiropodist, Costumes for
Hire. Most of the announcements were in foreign languages. There was