From this time on how different the dull, prosaic work seemed; the anticipation of the happy evening glorified each day, and he never failed to come. He appeared to be perfectly content in her company; he called her fond names, and usurped all the privileges of an accepted lover. He occasionally alluded to business, sometimes ending with, “When I get things into shape, I’ll pick you up and carry you off.” Often Merna felt hurt, the allusions were so vague and really unmeaning, and the talk of business so indefinite—the sentences never quite complete—so that she had no certain knowledge as to what was his business. A half-confidence is much more vexatious than no confidence as it puts one to thinking; this was really no trust at all in her; just an aggravating shadow, like a cloud over the summer sun, which when you look upward in expectation of its grateful shade has sailed away. A whole year passed away, and living in the light of his presence, her uneasy feeling had mostly worn away; if she gave it thought—that in reality she knew no more of the future than when he first returned, she consoled herself, and excused him, by saying, “Oh, he is so odd, but he means all right.” As upon previous occasions there came an evening when she waited for him in vain; she could not settle herself to anything, even the chatter of her customers annoyed her, and her ear persistently hearkened for a well-known footstep; something must have detained him unavoidably; he would surely come to-morrow evening, but all the while her heart was sinking heavily. He did not come the next evening, nor the one following, and her fear grew to a certainty. She mentioned his name to no one, but watched the passers-by on the street, feverishly; she eagerly looked over the newspapers, hoping for a chance mention of him. The days seemed so long and wearisome; the corners of her mouth took a sad droop; the work grew so irksome. Others sought her company, but she turned from them with dislike, or made comparisons to their great detriment. Business had heretofore been very good, but hard times came on, and little by little trade dropped off; it grew dull, then vexatious and finally exasperating; complaints were heard on every side. The days grew doubly sad when no customers came in to break the heavy monotony; the very silence grew oppressive, and Merna could scarcely restrain her tears. Her heart grew hard and bitter toward Ned, toward the world, and fate. The wind whistled shrilly around the loosely built building, rattling the boards and battens, and swaying the canvas walls and ceiling dizzily, making Merna feel more desolate and despondent than usual. She stood behind the cigar case, looking gloomily out upon the wind-swept street; as if conjured up by her thought, Martin Balfour—her chief creditor—entered the store. He came in with a great swagger, and called for a cigar: “Gi’mme a good one—twenty-five cent-er; I reckon I can afford it!” with an insolent leer.