She woke from troubled dreams each morning to stifle her sobbing in
the pillow. "Ach, Toby, coultn't you sented me yoost one word, you
_might_ sented me yoost one word, yoost one, to tell me what has
happened mit you! Ach, Toby, Toby!"

The canary sang happily; she loved it and tended it, and the gay
little prisoner tried to reward her by the most marvellous trilling in
his power, but her heart was the sorer for every song.

After a time she went back drearily to the kraut-smelling restaurant,
to the work she had thought to leave forever, that day when Toby had
not come for her. She went out twenty times every morning, and oftener
as it wore on towards evening, to look at his closed stand, always
with a choking hope in her heart, always to drag leaden feet back into
the restaurant. Several times, her breath failing for shame, she
approached Italians in the street, or where there was one to be found
at a stand of any sort she stopped and made a purchase, and asked for
some word of Toby--without result, always. She knew no other way to
seek for him.

One day, as she trudged homeward, two coloured women met on the
pavement in front of her, exchanged greetings, and continued for a
little way together.

"How you enjoyin' you' money, dese fine days, Miz Mo'ton?" inquired
one, with a laugh that attested to the richness of the joke between
the two.

"Law, honey," answered the other, "dat good luck di'n' las' ve'y
long. Dey done shut off my supplies."