She stood motionless, her eyes cast down, thinking. If she refused, he would be angry and remain away from home all the next day to pay her for the insult. If she gave it to him—well, she would have to take the chances. But oh, her hand shook as she drew the small gold piece from her shabby purse and reached it to him. His big, warm hand closed over it.
She looked up at him. Her eyes spoke the passionate prayer that her lips could not utter.
“Don’t stay long, Mart,” she whispered, not daring to say more.
“I won’t, Molly,” he whispered back. “I’ll hurry up. Git anything yuh want.”
She finished her poor shopping. Mr. Jenkins wrapped everything up neatly. Then he rubbed his hands together and looked at her, and said: “Well, there now, Mis’ Dupen.”
“I—jest lay ’em all together there on the counter,” she said hesitatingly. “I’ll have to wait till Mart comes back before I can pay yuh.”
“I see him go into the saloon over there,” piped out the errand boy shrilly.
At the end of half an hour she climbed upon the high stool and fixed her eyes upon the saloon opposite and sat there.
She saw nothing but the glare of those windows and the light streaming out when the doors opened. She heard nothing but the torturing blare of the music. After awhile something commenced beating painfully in her throat and temples. Her limbs grew stiff—she was scarcely conscious that they ached. Once she shuddered strongly, as dogs do when they lie in the cold, waiting.
At twelve o’clock Mr. Jenkins touched her kindly on the arm. She looked up with a start. Her face was gray and old; her eyes were almost wild in their strained despair.