Page:The story of Mary MacLane (IA storyofmarymacla00macliala).pdf/318

 "And where is he?"

"Back home—in Italy."

"Why doesn't he come out here and work for you?" I asked.

"Yes, w'y don't he?" said the woman. "Dat-a man, he's dem lucky w'en he can get enough to eat—he is."

"Why don't you send him some money to pay his way out, since you've saved so much?" I inquired.

"Holy God!" said the peddler-woman. "I work hard for dat-a money. I save ev'ry cent. I ain't go'n now to t'row it away—I ain't. Dat-a man, he's all right w'ere he is—he is."

"What did you marry him for?" I asked.

The peddler-woman looked at me with that look which seems to convey the information that curiosity once killed a cat.

"What for?" I persisted—"for love?"

"I marry him w'en I was young girl. And he was young, too."

"Yes—but what did you do it for?