out of the window waving her hand to me, then the cab sharply turned the corner of the street and all I could see was a cloud of dust.
Leaning on my harp, with Capi sprawling at my feet, I stayed there looking absently down the street. A neighbor, who had been asked to lock up the house and keep the key, called to me:
"Are you going to stay there all day?"
"No, I'm off now."
"Where are you going?"
"Straight ahead."
"If you'd like to stay," he said, perhaps out of pity, "I'll keep you, but I can't pay you, because you're not very strong. Later I might give you something."
I thanked him, but said no.
"Well, as you like; I was only thinking for your own good. Good-by and good luck!"
He went away. The cab had gone, the house was locked up.
I turned away from the home where I had lived for two years, and where I had hoped always to live. The sky was clear, the weather warm, very different from the icy night when poor Vitalis and I had fallen exhausted by the wall.
So these two years had only been a halt. I must go on my way again. But the stay had done me good. It had given me strength and I had made dear friends. I was not now alone in the world, and I had an object in life, to be useful and give pleasure to those I loved.
