“The manikins?”

“The little figures, you know—­Noah and his wife, and Shem, and all the others.”

It was true.  Trina could not whittle them fast enough and cheap enough to compete with the turning lathe, that could throw off whole tribes and peoples of manikins while she was fashioning one family.  Everything else, however, she made—­the ark itself, all windows and no door; the box in which the whole was packed; even down to pasting on the label, which read, “Made in France.”  She earned from three to four dollars a week.

The income from these three sources, McTeague’s profession, the interest of the five thousand dollars, and Trina’s whittling, made a respectable little sum taken altogether.  Trina declared they could even lay by something, adding to the five thousand dollars little by little.

It soon became apparent that Trina would be an extraordinarily good housekeeper.  Economy was her strong point.  A good deal of peasant blood still ran undiluted in her veins, and she had all the instinct of a hardy and penurious mountain race—­the instinct which saves without any thought, without idea of consequence—­saving for the sake of saving, hoarding without knowing why.  Even McTeague did not know how closely Trina held to her new-found wealth.

But they did not always pass their luncheon hour in this discussion of incomes and economies.  As the dentist came to know his little woman better she grew to be more and more of a puzzle and a joy to him.  She would suddenly interrupt a grave discourse upon the rents of rooms and the cost of light and fuel with a brusque outburst of affection that set him all a-tremble with delight.  All at once she would set down her chocolate, and, leaning across the narrow table, would exclaim: 

“Never mind all that!  Oh, Mac, do you truly, really love me—­love me big?”

McTeague would stammer something, gasping, and wagging his head, beside himself for the lack of words.

“Old bear,” Trina would answer, grasping him by both huge ears and swaying his head from side to side.  “Kiss me, then.  Tell me, Mac, did you think any less of me that first time I let you kiss me there in the station?  Oh, Mac, dear, what a funny nose you’ve got, all full of hairs inside; and, Mac, do you know you’ve got a bald spot—­” she dragged his head down towards her—­“right on the top of your head.”  Then she would seriously kiss the bald spot in question, declaring: 

“That’ll make the hair grow.”

Trina took an infinite enjoyment in playing with McTeague’s great square-cut head, rumpling his hair till it stood on end, putting her fingers in his eyes, or stretching his ears out straight, and watching the effect with her head on one side.  It was like a little child playing with some gigantic, good-natured Saint Bernard.