"Since I broke away from the folks up-State, and they've heard things, there ain't any more letters coming to me with an Oswego postmark. Ma's gone, and the rest don't care. You're all I've got in the world, Laura, and I'm making you do this only because I want to see you happy. I was afraid this complication would arise. The thing to do now is to grab your happiness, no matter how you get it, nor where it comes from. There ain't a whole lot of joy in this world for you and me and the others we know, and what little you get you've got to take when you're young, because when those gray hairs begin to show and the make-up isn't going to hide the wrinkles, unless you're well fixed, it's going to be h--ll. You know what a fellow doesn't know doesn't hurt him. He'll love you just the same, and you'll love him. As for Brockton, let him get another girl. There are plenty around. Why, if this chance came to me, I'd tie a can to Jerry so quick that you could hear it rattle all the way down Broadway!" She rose, and, leaning over the back of Laura's chair, put her arms lovingly around her neck. Tenderly, she said: "Promise me, dearie, that you won't be a d----d fool. Will you promise?" Laura looked up at her, and smiled faintly: "I promise." Elfie took her gloves and parasol. "Well, good-by, dear; I must be going. Ta-ta, dearie. Give my regards to your charmer." Laura accompanied her to the door. "Good-by, dear." Left alone, Laura returned to the parlor. Drawing aside the portieres that shut off the maid's quarters, she called out: "Annie!" "Yassum!" "I'm expecting a gentleman, Annie. When he comes, ask him in." CHAPTER XVIII. The New York Central Railroad terminus in Manhattan is not exactly a spot which one would be apt to select for a rest cure, although a famous nerve specialist has expressed the learned opinion that such little disturbances in the atmospheric envelope as the shrieking of steam whistles, the exploding of giant firecrackers, the bursting of pneumatic tires, the blasting with dynamite, the uproar of street traffic, the shouts of men and boys, the screams of women and the wailing of babes are soothing, rather than harmful, to the human nervous system. All these sounds and others even more discordant, greeted the tired passengers of the Buffalo express, as, arriving from the West, they emerged from the train-shed into the deafening turmoil of Forty-second Street. John Madison, tanned and weather-beaten, suitcase in hand, stood hesitating on the curb, as if dazed. After long months spent amid the loneliness and comparative quiet of the Nevada desert, the rush and bustle of the colossal metropolis was bewildering and confusing. A hackman hailed him. "Cab, sir?" "Yes," he answered, throwing his traveling grip on the seat. "Drive to the Waldorf."