other. Take the case of Lorison. At one time he
appeared to himself to be the feeblest of fools; at another

he conceived that he followed ideals so fine that the world
was not yet ready to accept them. During one mood he

cursed his folly; possessed by the other, he bore himself
with a serenegrandeur akin to greatness: in neither did

he attain the perspective.
Generations before, the name had been "Larsen."

His race had bequeathed him its fine-strung, melancholy
temperament, its saving balance of thrift and industry.

From his point of perspective he saw himself an outcast
from society, forever to be a shady skulker along the

ragged edge of respectability; a denizen des trois-quartz
de monde, that pathetic spheroid lying between the haut

and the demi, whose inhabitants envy each of their neigh-
bours, and are scorned by both. He was self-condemned

to this opinion, as he was self-exiled, through it, to this
quaint Southern city a thousand miles from his former

home. Here he had dwelt for longer than a year, know-
ing but few, keeping in a subjective world of shadows

which was invaded at times by the perplexing bulks of
jarring realities. Then he fell in love with a girl whom

he met in a cheap restaurant, and his story begins.
The Rue Chartres, in New Orleans, is a street of ghosts.

It lies in the quarter where the Frenchman, in his prime,
set up his translated pride and glory; where, also, the

arrogant don had swaggered, and dreamed of gold and
grants and ladies' gloves. Every flagstone has its grooves

worn by footsteps going royally to the wooing and the
fighting. Every house has a princely" target="_blank" title="a.王候般的；高贵的">princely heartbreak; each

doorway its untold tale of gallant promise and slow decay.
By night the Rue Chartres is now but a murky fissure,

from which the groping wayfarer sees, flung against the
sky, the tangled filigree of Moorish iron balconies. Ths

old houses of monsieur stand yet, indomitable against the
century, but their essence is gone. The street is one of

ghosts to whosoever can see them.
A faint heartbeat of the street's ancient glory still sur-

vives in a corner occupied by the Caf?Carabine d'Or.
Once men gathered there to plot against kings, and to

warn presidents. They do so yet, but they are not the
same kind of men. A brass button will scatter these;

those would have set their faces against an army. Above
the door hangs the sign board, upon which has been

depicted a vast animal of unfamiliarspecies. In the act
of firing upon this monster is represented an unobtrusive

human levelling an obtrusive gun, once the colour of
bright gold. Now the legend above the picture is faded

beyond conjecture; the gun's relation to the title is a
matter of faith; the menaced animal, wearied of the long

aim of the hunter, has resolved itself into a shapeless blot.
The place is known as "Antonio's," as the name, white

upon the red-lit transparency, and gilt upon the windows,
attests. There is a promise in "Antonio"; a justifiable

expectancy of savoury things in oil and pepper and wine,
and perhaps an angel's whisper of garlic. But the rest

of the name is "O'Riley." Antonio O'Riley!
The Carabine d'Or is an ignominious ghost of the Rue

Chartres. The caf?where Bienville and Conti dined,
where a prince has broken bread, is become a "family

ristaurant."
Its customers are working men and women, almost to

a unit. Occasionally you will see chorus girls from the
cheaper theatres, and men who follow avocations sub-

ject to quick vicissitudes; but at Antonio's -- name rich
in Bohemian promise, but tame in fulfillment -- manners

debonair and gay are toned down to the "family" stand-
ard. Should you light a cigarette, mine host will touch

you on the "arrum" and remind you that the proprieties
are menaced. "Antonio" entices and beguiles from fiery

legend without, but "O'Riley" teaches decorum within.
It was at this restaurant that Lorison first saw the girl.

A flashy fellow with a predatory eye had followed her in,
and had advanced to take the other chair at the little table

where she stopped, but Lorison slipped into the seat before
him. Their acquaintance began, and grew, and how for

two months they had sat at the same table each evening,
not meeting by appointment, but as if by a series of

fortuitous and happy accidents. After dining, they
would take a walk together in one of the little city parks,

or among the panoramic markets where exhibits a con-
tinuous vaudeville of sights and sounds. Always at eight

o'clock their steps led them to a certain street corner,
where she prettily but firmly bade him good night and

left him. "I do not live far from here," she frequently
said, "and you must let me go the rest of the way alone."

But now Lorison had discovered that he wanted to go
the rest of the way with her, or happiness would depart,

leaving, him on a very lonely corner of life. And at the
same time that he made the discovery, the secret of his

banishment from the society of the good laid its finger
in his face and told him it must not be.

Man is too thoroughly an egoist not to be also an egotist;
if he love, the object shall know it. During a lifetime he

may conceal it through stress of expediency and honour,
but it shall bubble from his dying lips, though it disrupt

a neighbourhood. It is known, however, that most men
do not wait so long to disclose their passion. In the case

of Lorison, his particular ethicspositivelyforbade him
to declare his sentiments, but he must needs dally with

the subject, and woo by innuendo at least.
On this night, after the usual meal at the Carabine

d'Or, he strolled with his companion down the dim old
street toward the river

The Rue Chartres perishes in the old Place d'Armes.
The ancient Cabildo, where Spanish justice fell like hail,

faces it, and the Cathedral, another provincial ghost,
overlooks it. Its centre is a little, iron-railed park of

flowers and immaculate gravelled walks, where citizens
take the air of evenings. Pedestalled high above it, the

general sits his cavorting steed, with his face turned
stonily down the river toward English Turn, whence

come no more Britons to bombard his cotton bales.
Often the two sat in this square, but to-night Lorison

guided her past the stone-stepped gate, and still riverward.
As they walked, he smiled to himself to think that all

he knew of her -- except that be loved her -- was her
name, Norah Greenway, and that she lived with her

brother. They had talked about everything except
themselves. Perhaps her reticence had been caused by his.

They came, at length, upon the levee, and sat upon a
great, prostrate beam. The air was pungent with the

dust of commerce. The great river slipped yellowly
past. Across it Algiers lay, a longitudinous black bulk

against a vibrant electric haze sprinkled with exact stars.
The girl was young and of the piquant order. A certain

bright melancholy pervaded her; she possessed an