om, and paused, out of
breath. The room was dark and empty. With cold, trembling fingers she
lighted the lamp, and, turning about, looked at her trunk. The lock was
burst.

"No, no, no," cried Trina, "it's not true; it's not true." She dropped
on her knees before the trunk, and tossed back the lid, and plunged
her hands down into the corner underneath her wedding dress, where she
always kept the savings. The brass match-safe and the chamois-skin bag
were there. They were empty.

Trina flung herself full length upon the floor, burying her face in her
arms, rolling her head from side to side. Her voice rose to a wail.

"No, no, no, it's not true; it's not true; it's not true. Oh, he
couldn't have done it. Oh, how could he have done it? All my money, all
my little savings--and deserted me. He's gone, my money's gone, my dear
money--my dear, dear gold pieces that I've worked so hard for. Oh, to
have deserted me--gone for good--gone and never coming back--gone with
my gold pieces. Gone-gone--gone. I'll never see them again, and I've
worked so hard, so so hard for him--for them. No, no, NO, it's not true.
It IS true. What will become of me now? Oh, if you'll only come back you
can have all the money--half of it. Oh, give me back my money. Give me
back my money, and I'll forgive you. You can leave me then if you want
to. Oh, my money. Mac, Mac, you've gone for good. You don't love me any
more, and now I'm a beggar. My money's gone, my husband's gone, gone,
gone, gone!"

Her grief was terrible. She dug her nails into her scalp, and clutching
the heavy coils of her thick black hair tore it again and again. She
struck her forehead with her clenched fists. Her little body shook from
head to foot with the violence of her sobbing. She ground her small
teeth together and beat her head upon the floor with all her strength.

Her hair was uncoiled and hanging a tangled, dishevelled mass far below
her waist; her dress was torn; a spot of blood was upon her forehead;
her eyes were swollen; her cheeks flamed vermilion from the fever that
raged in her veins. Old Miss Baker found her thus towards five o'clock
the next morning.

What had happened between one o'clock and dawn of that fearful night
Trina never remembered. She could only recall herself, as in a picture,
kneeling before her broken and rifled trunk, and then--weeks later, so
it seemed to her--she woke to find herself in her own bed with an iced
bandage about her forehead an