“There’s where our sign hung once,” said Trina.  She turned her head and looked down Polk Street towards where the Other Dentist had his rooms, and there, overhanging the street from his window, newly furbished and brightened, hung the huge tooth, her birthday present to her husband, flashing and glowing in the white glare of the electric lights like a beacon of defiance and triumph.

“Ah, no; ah, no,” whispered Trina, choking back a sob.  “Life isn’t so gay.  But I wouldn’t mind, no I wouldn’t mind anything, if only Mac was home all right.”  She got up from the horse-block and stood again on the corner of the alley, watching and listening.

It grew later.  The hours passed.  Trina kept at her post.  The noise of approaching footfalls grew less and less frequent.  Little by little Polk Street dropped back into solitude.  Eleven o’clock struck from the power-house clock; lights were extinguished; at one o’clock the cable stopped, leaving an abrupt and numbing silence in the air.  All at once it seemed very still.  The only noises were the occasional footfalls of a policeman and the persistent calling of ducks and geese in the closed market across the way.  The street was asleep.

When it is night and dark, and one is awake and alone, one’s thoughts take the color of the surroundings; become gloomy, sombre, and very dismal.  All at once an idea came to Trina, a dark, terrible idea; worse, even, than the idea of McTeague’s death.

“Oh, no,” she cried.  “Oh, no.  It isn’t true.  But suppose—­suppose.”

She left her post and hurried back to the house.

“No, no,” she was saying under her breath, “it isn’t possible.  Maybe he’s even come home already by another way.  But suppose—­suppose—­suppose.”

She ran up the stairs, opened the door of the room, 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.