But as the day drew near, something old and clamorous and yearning stirred once more within him. A swan song perhaps, but it amazed him with its lilt and fervor. He feared that lonely night as any lad, brimming with vitality. He wished to live, to joy, to share. Life bubbled. He threw over his diseased resolve--for so he termed it--to stay alone. He was unhappy. He would be glad. His mind swam to Clarice in a bath of colored feeling. He saw her differently. He saw that he wanted her. He saw that she wanted him. He looked upon his place of business as one of promise. He counted his prospects--his income in one year, in two, in ten! He knew that he wished to share the New Year’s Eve with her, with no one else,--and with no one else, his life! Throbbing with expectancy, half parched in his fever, he dashed off a note to her, inviting her to dine with him alone on the year’s last day--to revel with him alone, into the New. He put a special delivery stamp upon his note and mailed it, fatefully. Then he waited. New Year’s Eve was four days beyond. Would she come? Would he live? Was there a difference between these questions? That night, her answer came. It read: _Dear, dear Quincy_: Why did you not ask me before? Why do you ask me an impossible thing? You know how I long to spend New Year’s Eve with you. But how can I leave the family party? Please understand! I am broken-hearted. And come soon--_soon_. I have a date on January 2 that I will break for you. Oh, I would have broken any other date! You will come then. Come to dinner. The family are going out. We will be alone. Oh! how miserable you have made me by holding out this promise of a joyous time that I can not have. Until January 2-- CLARICE. A blow in the face would have shattered Quincy less than this girlish, forward promise of sympathy and love. On the last day of the year--late afternoon--Quincy lay on his couch, on his stomach, supporting his head in his two hands, re-reading that letter. The promise was precisely what he could not bear. The widening train of cherished things possessed, of things to do, was what he could not bear. Quincy was weary. All of him that was still flushed with life he had raised in his invitation for that night--no other--to a point. He had hoped his highest hope, fixed his highest joy, named his highest holding. He had missed--or Clarice had missed. He wanted nothing more. He wanted no longer any hope or joy or holding. He was done. So, at least, it seemed to Quincy. Once more he laid his trouble upon one place and thought thereby to make it no longer his. He thought little of Clarice as he went out, that last night of the year, to eat alone. * * * * * New Year’s Eve. Carnival time in the City. Carnival in the Latin lands makes one forget poverty. Carnival in New York makes one remember it.