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Updated: April 30, 2025
I can only think that, no matter what is wrong, two wonderful pieces of luck have come to you. Your husband that is, Mr. Schwitter cares for you, you admit that, and you are going to have a child." Tillie's pale eyes filled. "I used to be a good woman, Mrs. Howe," she said simply. "Now I'm not.
There were two crayon enlargements over the mantel. One was Schwitter, evidently. The other was the paper-doll wife. K. wondered what curious instinct of self-abnegation had caused Tillie to leave the wife there undisturbed. Back of its position of honor he saw the girl's realization of her own situation. On a wooden shelf, exactly between the two pictures, was another vase of dried flowers.
"You don't ever hear of Schwitter, do you?" "No; I guess she's still living." Schwitter, the nurseryman, had proved to have a wife in an insane asylum. That was why Tillie's romance had only paraded itself before her and had gone by. "You got out of that lucky." Tillie rose and tied a gingham apron over her white one. "I guess so. Only sometimes " "I don't know as it would have been so wrong.
When, five minutes later, she beckoned him from the door of the barn, her eyes were red. "Come in, Mr. K.," she said. "The wife's dead, poor thing. They're going to be married right away." The clergyman was coming along the path with Schwitter at his heels. K. entered the barn. At the door to Tillie's room he uncovered his head. The child was asleep at her breast.
"The hills help a lot," she repeated. K. rose. Tillie's work-basket lay near him. He picked up one of the little garments. In his big hands it looked small, absurd. "I I want to tell you something, Tillie. Don't count on it too much; but Mrs. Schwitter has been failing rapidly for the last month or two." Tillie caught his arm. "You've seen her?" "I was interested.
After the lady's husband. I guess we lose our license over this." "What does Schwitter say?" "Oh, him!" Bill's tone was full of disgust. "He hopes we do. He hates the place. Only man I ever knew that hated money. That's what this house is money." "Bill, did you see the man who fired that shot last night?" A sort of haze came over Bill's face, as if he had dropped a curtain before his eyes.
It seemed to me that the mere fact of your caring for him " That was shaky ground; he got off it quickly. "Schwitter has closed up. Do you want to stop there?" "Not to-night, please." They were near the white house now. Schwitter's had closed up, indeed. The sign over the entrance was gone. The lanterns had been taken down, and in the dusk they could see Tillie rocking her baby on the porch.
Schwitter had a little bar and served the best liquors he could buy; but he discouraged rowdiness had been known to refuse to sell to boys under twenty-one and to men who had already overindulged. The word went about that Schwitter's was no place for a good time. Even Tillie's chicken and waffles failed against this handicap. By the middle of April the house-cleaning was done.
Schwitter, coming in from the early milking, found her sitting in the kitchen, her face buried in her apron. He put down the milk-pails and, going over to her, put a hand on her head. "I guess there's no mistake, then?" "There's no mistake," said poor Tillie into her apron. He bent down and kissed the back of her neck.
She opened her eyes almost as soon as she fell to forestall any tests; she was shrewd enough to know that Wilson would detect her malingering very quickly and begged to be taken into the house. "I feel very ill," she said, and her white face bore her out. Schwitter and Bill carried her in and up the stairs to one of the newly furnished rooms. The little man was twittering with anxiety.
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