They stood staring at each other for a few moments longer. Finally Alena spoke again. “Jurgis,” she said, “I’d help you if I could, upon my word I would, but it happens that I’ve come out without my purse, and I honestly haven’t a penny with me: I can do something better for you, though—I can tell you how to get help. I can tell you where Marija is.”
Jurgis gave a start. “Marija!” he exclaimed.
“Yes,” said Alena; “and she’ll help you. She’s got a place, and she’s doing well; she’ll be glad to see you.”
It was not much more than a year since Jurgis had left Packingtown, feeling like one escaped from jail; and it had been from Marija and Elzbieta that he was escaping. But now, at the mere mention of them, his whole being cried out with joy. He wanted to see them; he wanted to go home! They would help him—they would be kind to him. In a flash he had thought over the situation. He had a good excuse for running away—his grief at the death of his son; and also he had a good excuse for not returning—the fact that they had left Packingtown. “All right,” he said, “I’ll go.”
So she gave him a number on Clark Street, adding, “There’s no need to give you my address, because Marija knows it.” And Jurgis set out, without further ado. He found a large brownstone house of aristocratic appearance, and rang the basement bell. A young colored girl came to the door, opening it about an inch, and gazing at him suspiciously.
“What do you want?” she demanded.
“Does Marija Berczynskas live here?” he inquired.
“I dunno,” said the girl. “What you want wid her?”
“I want to see her,” said he; “she’s a relative of mine.”
The girl hesitated a moment. Then she opened the door and said, “Come in.” Jurgis came and stood in the hall, and she continued: “I’ll go see. What’s yo’ name?”