second, firm jointed and long, Which showed that the reasoning powers were strong, But the will, from disuse, had grown feeble. 

Roger's reason

 That morning He looked on his dream in the light of a warning And made sudden plans for departure.  "To go Is to fly from some folly," he said, "for I know What salt air and dry wine, and the soft siren eyes Of a woman, can do under midsummer skies With a man who is wretched as I am. Unrest Is a tramp, who goes picking the locks on one's breast That a whole gang of vices may enter. A thirst For strong drink and chance games, those twin comrades accursed, Are already admitted. Oh Mabel, my wife, Reach, reach out your arms, draw me into the life That alone is worth living. I need you to-day, Have pity, and love me, oh love me, I pray. I will turn once again from the bad world to you. Though false to myself, to my vows I am true." 

That morning

 When a soul strives to pull itself up out of sin The devil tries harder to push it back in. And the man who attempts to retrace the wrong track Needs his God and his will to stand close at his back. 

 Through what are called accidents, Roger was late At the train. Are not accidents servants of Fate? The first coach was filled; he passed on to the second. That, too, seemed complete, but a gentleman beckoned And said, "There's a seat, sir; the third from the last On your left."  Roger thanked him and leisurely passed Down the aisle, with his coat on his arm, to the place Indicated. The seat held a lady, whose face Was turned to the window.  "Pray pardon me, miss" (For he judged by her back she was youthful), "is this Seat engaged?"  As he spoke, the face turned in surprise, And Roger looked into the long, languid eyes Of La Travers. She smiled, moved her wraps from the seat, And he sat down beside her. The same subtle, sweet Breath of perfume exhaled from her presence, and made The place seem a boudoir. The deep winey shade 'Neath her eyes had grown larger, as if she had wept Or a late, lonely vigil with memory kept. 

 A man who has rescued a woman from danger Or death, does not seem to her wholly a stranger When next she encounters him; yet both essayed To be formal and proper; and each of them made The effort a failure. The jar of a train At times holds a mesmeric spell for the brain And a tense excitation for nerves; and the shriek Of the engine compels one to lean near to speak Or to list to his neighbor. Formality flies With the smoke of the train and floats off to the skies. 

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