“My Lawd!” The widow lifted amazed hands to heaven. “De impidence er dem Dagoes! _Little_ mo' an' dey'll be sen'in' messages to you er me!--What her name?” “Name Bertha Grass,” responded Mrs. Morton, “an', nigh as I kin make out, she live in one er dese little w'ite-paint cottages, right 'long yere.” “Yas'm! I knows dat Dutch gal, ole man Grass, de tailor, dass his niece. W'y, dey done move out dis mawn, right f'um dis ve'y house you stan'in in front de gate of. De ole man skeered er de smallpox, an' he mad, too, an' de neighbuhs ask him whuh he gwine, he won't tell; so mad he won't speak to nobody. None on 'em 'round hyuh knows an' dey's considabul cyu'us 'bout it, too. Dey gone off in bofe d'rections--him one way, her 'nother. 'Peah lak dey be'n quollun!” “Now look at dat!” cried Mrs. Morton dolefully. “Look at dat! Ain't dat de doggonest luck in de wide worl'! De gyahd he say dat Dago willin' pay fifty cents a day fo' me to teck an' bring a message eve'y mawn' tell de quahumteem took off de cellar. Now dat Dutch gal gone an' loss dat money fo' me--movin' 'way whuh nobody cain't fine 'er!” “Sho!” laughed the widow. “Ef I'se in you place, Miz Mo'ton, an' you's in mine, dat money sho'lly, sho'lly nevah would be los', indeed hit wouldn't. I dass go in t' de do' an' tu'n right 'roun' back ag'in an' go down to dat gyahd an' say de Dutch gal 'ceive de message wid de bes' er 'bligin' politeness an' sent her kine regyahds to de Dago man an' all inquirin' frien's, an' hope de Dago man soon come an' git 'er. To-morrer de same, nex' day de same--” “Lawd, ef dat ain't de beatenest!” cried Mrs. Morton delightedly. “Well, honey, I thank you long as I live, 'cause I nevah'd a wuk dat out by myself an de livin' worl', an' I sho does needs de money. I'm goin' do exackly dass de way you say. Dat man he ain' goin' know no diffunce till he git out--an' den, honey,” she let loose upon the quiet air a sudden, great salvo of laughter, “dass let him fine Lize Mo'ton!” Bertha went to live in the tiny room with the canary bird and the engraving of the “Rock of Ages.” This was putting lime to the canker, but, somehow, she felt that she could go to no other place. She told the landlady that her young man had not done so well in business as they had expected, and had sought work in another city. He would come back, she said. She woke from troubled dreams each morning to stifle her sobbing in the pillow. “Ach, Toby, coultn't you sented me yoost one word, you _might_ sented me yoost one word, yoost one, to tell me what has happened mit you! Ach, Toby, Toby!” The canary sang happily; she loved it and tended it, and the gay little prisoner tried to reward her by the most marvellous trilling in his power, but her heart was the sorer for every song.