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Lieders felt a queer movement of pity. After the table was cleared, he helped his wife to wash and wipe the dishes as his custom was of a Sunday or holiday. He wiped dishes as he did everything, neatly, slowly, with a careful deliberation. Not until the dishes were put away and the couple were seated, did Thekla speak.

“Kurt,” she said, “I got to talk to you.”

An inarticulate groan and a glance at the door from Lieders. “I just got to, papa. It aint righd for you to do the way you been doing for so long time; efery little whiles you try to kill yourself; no, papa, that aint righd!”

Kurt, who had gotten out his pencils and compasses and other drawing tools, grunted: “I got to look at my work, Thekla, now; I am too busy to talk.”

“No, Kurt, no, papa”–the hands holding the blue apron that she was embroidering with white linen began to tremble; Lieders had not the least idea what a strain it was on this reticent, slow of speech woman who had stood in awe of him for eighteen years, to discuss the horror of her life; but he could not help marking her agitation. She went on, desperately: “Yes, papa, I got to talk it oud with you. You had ought to listen, ’cause I always been a good wife to you and nefer refused you notings. No.”

“Well, I aint saying I done it ’cause you been bad to me; everybody knows we aint had no trouble.”

“But everybody what don’t know us, when they read how you tried to kill yourself in the papers, they think it was me. That always is so. And now I never can any more sleep nights, for you is always maybe git up and do something to yourself. So now, I got to talk to you, papa. Papa, how could you done so?”

Lieders twisted his feet under the rungs of his chair; he opened his mouth, but only to shut it again with a click of his teeth.

“I got my mind made up, papa. I tought and I tought. I know WHY you done it; you done it ’cause you and the boss was mad at each other. The boss hadn’t no righd to let you go——“

“Yes, he had, I madded him first; I was a fool. Of course I knowed more than him ’bout the work, but I hadn’t no right to go against him. The boss is all right.”

“Yes, papa, I got my mind made up”–like most sluggish spirits there was an immense momentum about Thekla’s mind, once get it fairly started it was not to be diverted–“you never killed yourself before you used to git mad at the boss. You was afraid he would send you away; and now you have sent yourself away you don’t want to live, ’cause you do not know how you can git along without the shop. But you want to get back, you want to get back more as you want to kill yourself. Yes, papa, I know, I know where you did used to go, nights. Now”–she changed her speech unconsciously to the tongue of her youth–“it is not fair, it is not fair to me that thou shouldst treat me like that, thou dost belong to me, also; so I say, my Kurt, wilt thou make a bargain with me? If I shall get thee back thy place wilt thou promise me never to kill thyself any more?”

Lieders had not once looked up at her during the slow, difficult sentences with their half choked articulation; but he was experiencing some strange emotions, and one of them was a novel respect for his wife. All he said was: “‘Taint no use talking. I won’t never ask him to take me back, once.”

“Well, you aint asking of him. I ask him. I try to git you back, once!”