The magnet attracting a waif amid forces

partially away. Drouet called again, but now he was not even seen by her. 
His attentions seemed out of place. 
"I'm out," was her reply to the boy. 

---

So peculiar, indeed, was her lonely, self-withdrawing temper, that she was 
becoming an interesting figure in the public eye—she was so quiet and 
reserved. 
Not long after the management decided to transfer the show to London. A 
second summer season did not seem to promise well here. 
"How would you like to try subduing London?" asked her manager, one 
afternoon. 
"It might be just the other way," said Carrie. 
"I think we'll go in June," he answered. 
In the hurry of departure, Hurstwood was forgotten. Both he and Drouet 
were left to discover that she was gone. The latter called once, and exclaimed 
at the news. Then he stood in the lobby, chewing the ends of his moustache. 
At last he reached a conclusion—the old days had gone for good. 
"She isn't so much," he said; but in his heart of hearts he did not believe 
this. 
Hurstwood shifted by curious means through a long summer and fall. A 
small job as janitor of a dance hall helped him for a month. Begging, 
sometimes going hungry, sometimes sleeping in the park, carried him over 
more days. Resorting to those peculiar charities, several of which, in the 
press of hungry search, he accidentally stumbled upon, did the rest. Toward 
the dead of winter, Carrie came back, appearing on Broadway in a new play; 
but he was not aware of it. For weeks he wandered about the city, begging, 
while the fire sign, announcing her engagement, blazed nightly upon the 
crowded street of amusements. Drouet saw it, but did not venture in. 
About this time Ames returned to New York. He had made a little success in 
the West, and now opened a laboratory in Wooster Street. Of course, he 
encountered Carrie through Mrs. Vance; but there was nothing responsive 
between them. He thought she was still united to Hurstwood, until 
otherwise informed. Not knowing the facts then, he did not profess to 
understand, and refrained from comment. 
With Mrs. Vance, he saw the new play, and expressed himself accordingly. 
"She ought not to be in comedy," he said. "I think she could do better than 
that." 
One afternoon they met at the Vances' accidentally, and began a very 
friendly conversation. She could hardly tell why the one-time keen interest 
in him was no longer with her. Unquestionably, it was because at that time 
he had represented something which she did not have; but this she did not 
understand. Success had given her the momentary feeling that she was now 
blessed with much of which he would approve. As a matter of fact, her little 

---

newspaper fame was nothing at all to him. He thought she could have done 
better, by far. 
"You didn't go into comedy-drama, after all?" he said, remembering her 
interest in that form of art. 
"No," she answered; "I haven't, so far." 
He looked at her in such a peculiar way that she realised she had failed. It 
moved her to add: "I want to, though." 
"I should think you would," he said. "You have the sort of disposition that 
would do well in comedy-drama." 
It surprised her that he should speak of disposition. Was she, then, so 
clearly in his mind? 
"Why?" she asked. 
"Well," he said, "I should judge you were rather sympathetic in your nature." 
Carrie smiled and coloured slightly. He was so innocently frank with her 
that she drew nearer in friendship. The old call of the ideal was sounding. 
"I don't know," she answered, pleased, nevertheless, beyond all concealment. 
"I saw your play," he remarked. "It's very good." 
"I'm glad you liked it." 
"Very good, indeed," he said, "for a comedy." 
This is all that was said at the time, owing to an interruption, but later they 
met again. He was sitting in a corner after dinner, staring at the floor, when 
Carrie came up with another of the guests. Hard work had given his face the 
look of one who is weary. It was not for Carrie to know the thing in it which 
appealed to her. 
"All alone?" she said. 
"I was listening to the music." 
"I'll be back in a moment," said her companion, who saw nothing in the 
inventor. 
Now he looked up in her face, for she was standing a moment, while he sat. 
"Isn't that a pathetic strain?" he inquired, listening. 
"Oh, very," she returned, also catching it, now that her attention was called. 
"Sit down," he added, offering her the chair beside him. 
They listened a few moments in silence, touched by the same feeling, only 
hers reached her through the heart. Music still charmed her as in the old 
days. 

---

"I don't know what it is about music," she started to say, moved by the 
inexplicable longings which surged within her; "but it always makes me feel 
as if I wanted something—I——" 
"Yes," he replied; "I know how you feel." 
Suddenly he turned to considering the peculiarity of her disposition, 
expressing her feelings so frankly. 
"You ought not to be melancholy," he said. 
He thought a while, and then went off into a seemingly alien observation 
which, however, accorded with their feelings. 
"The world is full of desirable situations, but, unfortunately, we can occupy 
but one at a time. It doesn't do us any good to wring our hands over the far-
off things." 
The music ceased and he arose, taking a standing position before her, as if 
to rest himself. 
"Why don't you get into some good, strong comedy-drama?" he said. He was 
looking directly at her now, studying her face. Her large, sympathetic eyes 
and pain-touched mouth appealed to him as proofs of his judgment. 
"Perhaps I shall," she returned. 
"That's your field," he added. 
"Do you think so?" 
"Yes," he said; "I do. I don't suppose you're aware of it, but there is 
something about your eyes and mouth which fits you for that sort of work." 
Carrie thrilled to be taken so seriously. For the moment, loneliness deserted 
her. Here was praise which was keen and analytical. 
"It's in your eyes and mouth," he went on abstractedly. "I remember 
thinking, the first time I saw you, that there was something peculiar about 
your mouth. I thought you were about to cry." 
"How odd," said Carrie, warm with delight. This was what her heart craved. 
"Then I noticed that that was your natural look, and to-night I saw it again. 
There's a shadow about your eyes, too, which gives your face much this 
same character. It's in the depth of them, I think." 
Carrie looked straight into his face, wholly aroused. 
"You probably are not aware of it," he added. 
She looked away, pleased that he should speak thus, longing to be equal to 
this feeling written upon her countenance. It unlocked the door to a new 
desire. 

---

She had cause to ponder over this until they met again—several weeks or 
more. It showed her she was drifting away from the old ideal which had 
filled her in the dressing-rooms of the Avery stage and thereafter, for a long 
time. Why had she lost it? 
"I know why you should be a success," he said, another time, "if you had a 
more dramatic part. I've studied it out——" 
"What is it?" said Carrie. 
"Well," he said, as one pleased with a puzzle, "the expression in your face is 
one that comes out in different things. You get the same thing in a pathetic 
song, or any picture which moves you deeply. It's a thing the world likes to 
see, because it's a natural expression of its longing." 
Carrie gazed without exactly getting the import of what he meant. 
"The world is always struggling to express itself," he went on. "Most people 
are not capable of voicing their feelings. They depend upon others. That is 
what genius is for. One man expresses their desires for them in music; 
another one in poetry; another one in a play. Sometimes nature does it in a 
face—it makes the face representative of all desire. That's what has 
happened in your case." 
He looked at her with so much of the import of the thing in his eyes that she 
caught it. At least, she got the idea that her look was something which 
represented the world's longing. She took it to heart as a creditable thing, 
until he added: 
"That puts a burden of duty on you. It so happens that you have this thing. 
It is no credit to you—that is, I mean, you might not have had it. You paid 
nothing to get it. But now that you have it, you must do something with it." 
"What?" asked Carrie. 
"I should say, turn to the dramatic field. You have so much sympathy and 
such a melodious voice. Make them valuable to others. It will make your 
powers endure." 
Carrie did not understand this last. All the rest showed her that her comedy 
success was little or nothing. 
"What do you mean?" she asked. 
"Why, just this. You have this quality in your eyes and mouth and in your 
nature. You can lose it, you know. If you turn away from it and live to satisfy 
yourself alone, it will go fast enough. The look will leave your eyes. Your 
mouth will change. Your power to act will disappear. You may think they 
won't, but they will. Nature takes care of that." 

---

He was so interested in forwarding all good causes that he sometimes 
became enthusiastic, giving vent to these preachments. Something in Carrie 
appealed to him. He wanted to stir her up. 
"I know," she said, absently, feeling slightly guilty of neglect. 
"If I were you," he said, "I'd change." 
The effect of this was like roiling helpless waters. Carrie troubled over it in 
her rocking-chair for days. 
"I don't believe I'll stay in comedy so very much longer," she eventually 
remarked to Lola. 
"Oh, why not?" said the latter. 
"I think," she said, "I can do better in a serious play." 
"What put that idea in your head?" 
"Oh, nothing," she answered; "I've always thought so." 
Still, she did nothing—grieving. It was a long way to this better thing—or 
seemed so—and comfort was about her; hence the inactivity and longing.