I left her heavy hearted, went to the reporter's table and wrote my story, very badly I must admit, for I was cut deep with sadness. Then I came away and walked for hours, not caring whither. A great homesickness had come over me. I felt as if a talk with Uncle Eb or Elizabeth Brower would have given me the comfort I needed. I walked rapidly through dark, deserted streets. A steeple clock was striking two, when I heard someone coming hurriedly on the walk behind me. I looked over my shoulder, but could not make him out in the darkness, and yet there was something familiar in the step. As he came near I felt his hand upon my shoulder. 'Better go home, Brower,' he said, as I recognised the voice of Trumbull. 'You've been out a long time. Passed you before tonight.' 'Why didn't you speak?' 'You were preoccupied.' 'Not keeping good hours yourself,' I said. 'Rather late,' he answered, 'but I am a walker, and I love the night. It is so still in this part of the town.' We were passing the Five Points. 'When do you sleep,' I enquired. 'Never sleep at night,' he said, 'unless uncommonly tired. Out every night more or less. Sleep two hours in the morning and two in the afternoon--that's all I require. Seen the hands o' that clock yonder on every hour of the night.' He pointed to a lighted dial in a near tower. Stopping presently he looked down at a little waif asleep in a doorway, a bundle of evening papers under his arm. He lifted him tenderly. 'Here, boy,' he said, dropping corns in the pocket of the ragged little coat, 'I'll take those papers--you go home now. We walked to the river, passing few save members of 'the force, who always gave Trumbull a cheery 'hello, Cap!' We passed wharves where the great sea horses lay stalled, with harnesses hung high above them, their noses nodding over our heads; we stood awhile looking up at the looming masts, the lights of the river craft. 'Guess I've done some good,' said he turning into Peck Slip. 'Saved two young women. Took 'em off the streets. Fine women now both of them--respectable, prosperous, and one is beautiful. Man who's got a mother, or a sister, can't help feeling sorry for such people. We came up Frankfort to William Street where we shook hands and parted and I turned up Monkey Hill. I had made unexpected progress with Trumbull that night. He had never talked to me so freely before and somehow he had let me come nearer to him than I had ever hoped to be. His company had lifted me out of the slough a little and my mind was on a better footing as I neared the chalet.