Somehow, he had never felt himself more alone--not even by night in the solemn plains of Manchuria--and he threw off the feeling, almost with contempt.

Was not this city his very own?
Had he not a birthright in every stone of it, from pavement to loftiest pinnacle?
This was _his_ home-coming, too, more real, more literally complete, than in the case of any but the few born New Yorkers who might figure among the two thousand passengers carried by the _Lusitania_.
Insistently claiming his share of recognition, he turned abruptly, and made his way to the third deck.

There he met a lady, a young bride, who was returning to the States with her husband after a prolonged tour through Europe.

Her pretty face was wrung with emotion, but a second glance revealed that her distress was due to the pleasant pain of happiness.
"Have you seen your father and mother ?" he asked sympathetically, knowing that she had looked forward to this great hour with so much longing.
"Y-yes," she sobbed.

"They are there--somewhere.