He turned upon her, suddenly, a face like a mother's, and touched her hand with a light caress.
“I stay in a workhouse sevena-hunder' year,” he said gently, “you come seeta by window some-a-time.”
At this Bertha turned away, was silent for a space, leaning on the gate-post in front of her uncle's house, whither they were now come. Finally she answered brokenly: “I ain'd sit by no vinder for yoost a jessnut maan.” This was her way of stimulating his ambition.
“Ahaha!” he cried. “You don' know? I'm goin' buy beeg stan'! Candy! Peanut! Banan'! Make some-a-time four dollar a day! 'Tis a greata countra! Bimaby git a store! Ride a buggy! Smoke a cigar! You play piano! Vote a Republican!”
“Toby!”
“Tis true!”
“Toby,” she said tearfully; “Toby, you voik hart, und safe your money?”
“You help?” he whispered.
“I help—you!” she cried loudly. Then, with a sudden fit of sobbing, she flung open the gate and ran at the top of her speed into the house.
Halcyon the days for Pietro Tobigli, extravagant the jocularity of this betrothed one. And, as his happiness, so did his prosperity increase; the little chestnut furnace became the smallest adjunct of his affairs; for he leaped (almost at one bound) to the proprietorship of a wooden stand, shaped like the crate of an upright piano and backed up against the brick wall of the restaurant—a mercantile house which was closed at night by putting the lid on. All day long Toby's smile arrested pedestrians, and compelled them to buy of him, making his wares sweeter in the mouth. Bertha dwelt in a perpetual serenade: on warm days, when the restaurant doors were open, she could hear him singing, not always “Ogostine,” but festal lilts of Italy, liquid and strangely sweet to her; and at such times, when the actual voice was not in her ears, still she blushed with delight to hear in her heart the thrilling echoes of his barcaroles, and found them humming cheerily upon her own lips.