ere with her. It was her wedding day. Her wedding dress was
in a huge tin trunk on the driver's seat. She had never been happier
before in all her life. She remembered how she got out of the hack
and stood for a moment upon the horse-block, looking up at McTeague's
windows. She had caught a glimpse of him at his shaving, the lather
still on his cheek, and they had waved their hands at each other.
Instinctively Trina looked up at the flat behind her; looked up at the
bay window where her husband's "Dental Parlors" had been. It was all
dark; the windows had the blind, sightless appearance imparted by
vacant, untenanted rooms. A rusty iron rod projected mournfully from one
of the window ledges.

"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 ro