f one of his dearest friends for a trip round the
world that might last a year--and she mustn't worry about the silly old
dress coat, because his new dinner-jacket suit would be ample for a boat
trip. Also she'd be glad to know that he had a new mandolin, though she
wasn't to worry about the bill for it, because the man didn't expect his
pay on time and, anyway, he could wait, so with fondest love!

And Vida was so relieved at this good fortune. To think that her
despondent boy was once more assured of his rightful position for a
whole year, while she was saving her princely wages till she got enough
to start another boarding house that would be more like a home. Wasn't
it all simply too good to be true--wasn't it always darkest just before
dawn!

I didn't trust myself to answer that letter, beyond wiring her that if
she ever felt she was having any really hard luck to be sure and call on
me. And she went on working and putting her money by. It was two years
later when I next saw her. I looked her up the first thing when I got to
New York.

She was still accepting a position in this grocery, but of course had
changed to a much smaller furnished room where she could be cozy and feed
herself from a gas stove on the simple plain foods that one just can't
seem to get at high-priced restaurants.

She'd changed a lot. Lines in her face now, and streaks in her brown
hair, and she barely thirty. I made up my mind to do something harsh,
but couldn't just tell how to start. She'd had a picture card from her
boy the first year, showing the Bay of Naples and telling how he longed
for her; but six months later had come a despondent letter from Japan
speaking again of the river and saying he often felt like ending it
all. Only, he might drag out his existence a bit longer because another
wealthy old chum was in port and begging him to switch over to his yacht
and liven up the party, which was also going round the world--and maybe
he would, because "after all, does anything in life really matter?"

That was the last line. I read it myself while Vida watched me, setting
on her little iron bed after work one night. She had a plain little room
with no windows but one in the roof, though very tastefully furnished
with photos of Clyde on every wall. The only other luxury she'd indulged
in was a three-dollar revolver because she was deathly afraid of
burglars. She'd also bought a hammer to shoot the revolver off with,
keeping 'em both