Thus, he considered the lover blessed over all creatures, and it was a delight to him to think of "God's own mad lover," rising above the things of earth, above wealth and judgment, public opinion and applause, rising above life itself and "dying on a kiss." Much of this Martin had already reasoned out, and some of it he reasoned out later.

In the meantime he worked, taking no recreation except when he went to see Ruth, and living like a Spartan.

He paid two dollars and a half a month rent for the small room he got from his Portuguese landlady, Maria Silva, a virago and a widow, hard working and harsher tempered, rearing her large brood of children somehow, and drowning her sorrow and fatigue at irregular intervals in a gallon of the thin, sour wine that she bought from the corner grocery and saloon for fifteen cents.

From detesting her and her foul tongue at first, Martin grew to admire her as he observed the brave fight she made.

There were but four rooms in the little house--three, when Martin's was subtracted.