“Huh?” asked Maria, straightening up, her hands on he hips.

“Tell us your name,” repeated Marcus.

“Name is Maria—­Miranda—­Macapa.”  Then, after a pause, she added, as though she had but that moment thought of it, “Had a flying squirrel an’ let him go.”

Invariably Maria Macapa made this answer.  It was not always she would talk about the famous service of gold plate, but a question as to her name never failed to elicit the same strange answer, delivered in a rapid undertone:  “Name is Maria—­Miranda—­Macapa.”  Then, as if struck with an after thought, “Had a flying squirrel an’ let him go.”

Why Maria should associate the release of the mythical squirrel with her name could not be said.  About Maria the flat knew absolutely nothing further than that she was Spanish-American.  Miss Baker was the oldest lodger in the flat, and Maria was a fixture there as maid of all work when she had come.  There was a legend to the effect that Maria’s people had been at one time immensely wealthy in Central America.

Maria turned again to her work.  Trina and Marcus watched her curiously.  There was a silence.  The corundum burr in McTeague’s engine hummed in a prolonged monotone.  The canary bird chittered occasionally.  The room was warm, and the breathing of the five people in the narrow space made the air close and thick.  At long intervals an acrid odor of ink floated up from the branch post-office immediately below.

Maria Macapa finished her work and started to leave.  As she passed near Marcus and his cousin she stopped, and drew a bunch of blue tickets furtively from her pocket.  “Buy a ticket in the lottery?” she inquired, looking at the girl.  “Just a dollar.”

“Go along with you, Maria,” said Marcus, who had but thirty cents in his pocket.  “Go along; it’s against the law.”

“Buy a ticket,” urged Maria, thrusting the bundle toward Trina.  “Try your luck.  The butcher on the next block won twenty dollars the last drawing.”

Very uneasy, Trina bought a ticket for the sake of being rid of her.  Maria disappeared.

“Ain’t she a queer bird?” muttered Marcus.  He was much embarrassed and disturbed because he had not bought the ticket for Trina.

But there was a sudden movement.  McTeague had just finished with Miss Baker.

“You should notice,” the dressmaker said to the dentist, in a low voice, “he always leaves the door a little ajar in the afternoon.”  When she had gone out, Marcus Schouler brought Trina forward.

“Say, Mac, this is my cousin, Trina Sieppe.”  The two shook hands dumbly, McTeague slowly nodding his huge head with its great shock of yellow hair.  Trina was very small and prettily made.  Her face was round and rather pale; her eyes long and narrow and blue, like the half-open eyes of a little baby; her lips and the lobes of her tiny ears were pale, a little suggestive of anaemia; while across the bridge