I bet she made mistakes as a grocer’s cashier next day, but it was worth it because her appeals to Clyde’s better nature had prevailed.  He did disappear that day, getting his trunks from the house while she was at the store and not being able to say good-bye because he couldn’t remember which store she was accepting a situation at.  But he left her a nice note.  He wasn’t going to end it all in the river.  He was going off on the private steamboat of 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 on the stand at the head of her bed.  Yes; she said that was the way the man was firing it off in the advertisement—­hitting it on a certain spot with a hammer.  She was a reckless little scoundrel.  She told me all about how to shoot a revolver while I was thinking up what to say about Clyde.