"Why, how could you get to Cincinnati?" he said. "You haven't any money."
"I've a twenty-dollar gold piece Uncle gave me as a keepsake. And I've got seventeen dollars in other money, and several dollars in change," explained she. "I've got two hundred and forty-three dollars and fifty cents in the bank, but I can't get that—not now. They'll send it to me when I find a place and am settled and let them know."
"You can't do it, Susie! You can't and you mustn't."
"If you knew what they said to me! Oh, I couldn't stay, Sam. I've got some of my clothes—a little bundle behind the front door. As soon as I'm settled I'll let you know."
A silence, then he, hesitatingly, "Don't you—do you—hadn't I better go with you?"
She thrilled at this generosity, this new proof of love. But she said: "No, I wouldn't let you do that. They'd blame you. And I want them to know it's all my own doing."
"You're right, Susie," said the young man, relieved and emphatic. "If I went with you, it'd only get both of us into deeper trouble." Again silence, with Sam feeling a kind of awe as he studied the resolute, mysterious profile of the girl, which he could now see clearly. At last he said: "And after you get there, Susie—what will you do?"
"Find a boarding house, and then look for a place."
"What kind of a place?"
"In a store—or making dresses—or any kind of sewing. Or I could do housework."