together. I was afraid I was going to faint away. "No, no; I must not faint away," I remember I said to myself. "If I should faint away in this cold, I might freeze to death." I did not want to freeze to death, because—don't you understand?—because I was no longer only myself. There was another life united with mine. I had no right to die. I must go somewhere and get warm,—at once, before it was too late. I wondered where I was. I looked at a lamp-post. I was clear down town,—on Eighth Avenue near Fourteenth Street. I had walked all that distance since leaving home. Well, where should I go now, to get warm, and to rest? I should not be able to go much further. I must go somewhere at once. Where?
"Why," suddenly I thought, "why, to Merotti's, of course. Where else? Merotti's,—it is only a few blocks away. Why, of course, to Merotti's."
And towards Merotti's I set my face.
My memory of that night keeps growing dimmer and more confused. Though Merotti's was only a few blocks away, yet, I remember, I was so tired, and so stiff with the cold, that it seemed as if I never should get there. I remember what an effort every single step cost me; my feet had become as heavy as lead, and hard to lift. And then I remember that at last, with a great leap of the heart, I found that I had reached Merotti's door. I dragged myself up his stairs, and went into his big room, and sank down upon a chair. I remember how hot the room was, and how it smelt of wine and food and tobacco-smoke, and how the smells made me deathly sick for a moment, and how the lights blinded my eyes. I sank down upon a chair, and closed my eyes, to shut out the dazzling lights; and right away I forgot everything, and only felt a tingling in all my limbs, and a throbbing in my temples, and heard a loud roaring in my ears.
By and by some one spoke to me. I looked up. I saw Merotti,—great, kind Merotti,—with his dirty apron and his shirt-sleeves rolled up, the same as ever. I don't remember what he said to me,—no, nor what I said to him. I remember he gave me some hot wine to drink, and that afterwards he led me out of the big room, and up a flight—or two flights; I think it was two flights—of stairs; and I seem to have a very dream-like recollection of going into another room, a small room in which there was a bed; and then I must have gone straight to sleep, because there—at that point—my memory breaks off, and I cannot remember anything; more until the next morning, when I woke up.
But, ah, how well I remember that—that waking up! First of all, before I opened my eyes, I felt just a sense of ease and warmth
