“I’ve flew the coop on him forever!” said Clara, with her broad, amiable, unintelligent smile. “I got a little hall room for myself, and—me go back to him? Oh, my! is that a step on the stairs? I wouldn’t wish it, not for the world, for him to find me here! I never want to see the face of him again!” Clara looked around for a place to hide; ran to the door of the front room, and, with her hand on the knob, stood listening. “’Tain’t him! It’s someone going upstairs,” she said, smiling her relief. “I’ll never go back to him.” A week later. Clara again. And Clara was out of breath. “Oh, Mrs. McGibney, has the man come yet? I thought I saw him over on Ninth Avenue, and I run clear around the block for fear he’d be after me and track me here. I was just buying a bit of furniture and going to start rooms for myself, when I get a few bits together. And is it too much to ask you to store them for me till I get rooms, Mrs. McGibney?” “We’re only too glad—” began Mrs. McGibney. “Oh, on your life, don’t stir! It’s him! He mustn’t know where I am, or he might try to get me back! I don’t never want to see him again!” whispered Clara. “On your life, not giving no orders, don’t stir, or he’ll know you’re in and see me here.” There was a rap on the door. “Oh, my! Look out—would he hear us?” Out in the hall: “McGibney! Anyone know where McGibney lives?” “Oh!” breathed Clara, “that’s all right. It’s the furniture men.” And two men from a Ninth Avenue furniture store came in with a bureau. At least they set it in the hall, and turned to hasten down the stairs; paused to do little better than that, and rolled the bureau half way into the room; turned to run back to the store, but, in turning, thrust back with their heels, and pushed the bureau quite into the room, which was conscientious enough delivering of goods to suit anybody. “I bought that!” said Clara, proudly. The bureau was rolled into the front room, and she helped, her hands caressing more than pushing. There was no back to the bureau. The varnish was worn off. Some one had broken open the top drawer, splintering the wood on each side of the keyhole. “It’s mine!” said Clara rapturously. “It took three days of hard scrubbing on hands and knees, for me to buy that. It’ll be every bit as good as new, with a few boards nailed on the back, and a little oil rubbed over it.” The bureau was rolled to a corner of the front room, but Clara could not leave it, hovering over it, stooping and pulling out drawers, one by one, gazing delightedly at the disgraceful old wreck. “Yes!” said Clara. “The other day when I was scrubbing the restaurant floor, there was customers looking at me, and they says, ‘Look at that poor woman! Ain’t some got hard lots in life!’ They needn’t of pitied me! I was earning that! Just a few boards and a little oil is all it needs, and I’ll get as fine a home together as anybody’s got—what’s that?” Clara ran to the kitchen to listen.