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But it came about so; there was n’t any other way for you, it seemed like.” I put my arms around her. I could n’t bear to see her cry. “What is it, grandmother? Is it the Firemen’s dances?” She nodded. “I’m sorry I sneaked off like that. But there’s nothing wrong about the dances, and I have n’t done anything wrong. I like all those country girls, and I like to dance with them.
They laughed and shouted, and said they never wanted to go home again. Could n’t we settle down and live in Russian Peter’s house, Yulka asked, and could n’t I go to town and buy things for us to keep house with?
“I don’t believe it,” I said stoutly. “I almost know it is n’t true.” I did not, of course, say that I believed he had been in that very kitchen all afternoon, on his way back to his own country. Nevertheless, after I went to bed, this idea of punishment and Purgatory came back on me crushingly. I remembered the account of Dives in torment, and shuddered. But Mr.
Then you won’t sail round so fine, making eyes at the men! …” The Norwegian women did n’t know where to look. They were formal housewives, most of them, with a severe sense of decorum. But Lena Lingard only laughed her lazy, good-natured laugh and rode on, gazing back over her shoulder at Ole’s infuriated wife. The time came, however, when Lena did n’t laugh.
She was a sweet creature to those she loved, that Lena Lingard! At last she sent me away with her soft, slow, renunciatory kiss. “You are n’t sorry I came to see you that time?” she whispered. “It seemed so natural. I used to think I’d like to be your first sweetheart. You were such a funny kid!” She always kissed one as if she were sadly and wisely sending one away forever.
He studied them seriously, while Lena looked over his shoulder, telling him she thought the red letters would hold their color best. He seemed so perplexed that I thought perhaps he had n’t enough money, after all. Presently he said gravely,— “Sister, you know mother’s name is Berthe. I don’t know if I ought to get B for Berthe, or M for Mother.”
Tiny audits Lena’s accounts occasionally, and invests her money for her; and Lena, apparently, takes care that Tiny does n’t grow too miserly. “If there’s anything I can’t stand,” she said to me in Tiny’s presence, “it’s a shabby rich woman.” Tiny smiled grimly and assured me that Lena would never be either shabby or rich. “And I don’t want to be,” the other agreed complacently.
“Oh, we know!” They both spoke together; seemed a little surprised that I should think it necessary to mention this. “Everybody liked her, did n’t they? The Harlings and your grandmother, and all the town people.” “Sometimes,” I ventured, “it does n’t occur to boys that their mother was ever young and pretty.”
Shimerda could n’t have got hens from her neighbors last fall and had a henhouse going by now. I reckon she was confused and did n’t know where to begin. I’ve come strange to a new country myself, but I never forgot hens are a good thing to have, no matter what you don’t have.”
I led her toward Cleric’s chair, the only comfortable one I had, questioning her confusedly. She was not disconcerted by my embarrassment. She looked about her with the naïve curiosity I remembered so well. “You are quite comfortable here, are n’t you? I live in Lincoln now, too, Jim. I’m in business for myself. I have a dressmaking shop in the Raleigh Block, out on O Street.
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