“How many grandchildren have you?”

  “Only thirty-one now. Olaf lost his three. They were sickly, like their mother.”

  “I supposed he had a second crop by this time!”

  “His second wife has no children. She’s too proud. She tears about on horseback all the time. But she’ll get caught up with, yet. She sets herself very high, though nobody knows what for. They were low enough Bohemians she came of. I never thought much of Bohemians; always drinking.”

  Nils puffed away at his pipe in silence, and Mrs. Ericson knitted on. In a few moments she added grimly: “She was down here to-night, just before you came. She’d like to quarrel with me and come between me and Olaf, but I don’t give her the chance. I suppose you’ll be bringing a wife home some day.”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never thought much about it.”

  “Well, perhaps it’s best as it is,” suggested Mrs. Ericson hopefully. “You’d never be contented tied down to the land. There was roving blood in your father’s family, and it’s come out in you. I expect your own way of life suits you best.” Mrs. Ericson had dropped into a blandly agreeable tone which Nils well remembered. It seemed to amuse him a good deal and his white teeth flashed behind his pipe. His mother’s strategies had always diverted him, even when he was a boy — they were so flimsy and patent, so illy proportioned to her vigor and force. “They’ve been waiting to see which way I’d jump,” he reflected. He felt that Mrs. Ericson was pondering his case deeply as she sat clicking her needles.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve ever got used to steady work,” she went on presently. “Men ain’t apt to if they roam around too long. It’s a pity you didn’t come back the year after the World’s Fair. Your father picked up a good bit of land cheap then, in the hard times, and I expect maybe he’d have give you a farm. It’s too bad you put off comin’ back so long, for I always thought he meant to do something by you.”

  Nils laughed and shook the ashes out of his pipe. “I’d have missed a lot if I had come back then. But I’m sorry I didn’t get back to see father.”

  “Well, I suppose we have to miss things at one end or the other. Perhaps you are as well satisfied with your own doings, now, as you’d have been with a farm,” said Mrs. Ericson reassuringly.

  “Land’s a good thing to have,” Nils commented, as he lit another match and sheltered it with his hand.

  His mother looked sharply at his face until the match burned out. “Only when you stay on it!” she hastened to say.

  Eric came round the house by the path just then, and Nils rose, with a yawn. “Mother, if you don’t mind, Eric and I will take a little tramp before bed-time. It will make me sleep.”

  “Very well; only don’t stay long. I’ll sit up and wait for you. I like to lock up myself.”

  Nils put his hand on Eric’s shoulder, and the two tramped down the hill and across the sand creek into the dusty highroad beyond. Neither spoke. They swung along at an even gait, Nils puffing at his pipe. There was no moon, and the white road and the wide fields lay faint in the starlight. Over everything was darkness and thick silence, and the smell of dust and sunflowers. The brothers followed the road for a mile or more without finding a place to sit down. Finally Nils perched on a stile over the wire fence, and Eric sat on the lower step.

  “I began to think you never would come back, Nils,” said the boy softly.

  “Didn’t I promise you I would?”

  “Yes; but people don’t bother about promises they make to babies. Did you really know you were going away for good when you went to Chicago with the cattle that time?”

  “I thought it very likely, if I could make my way.”

  “I don’t see how you did it, Nils. Not many fellows could.” Eric rubbed his shoulder against his brother’s knee.

  “The hard thing was leaving home — you and father. It was easy enough, once I got beyond Chicago. Of course I got awful homesick; used to cry myself to sleep. But I’d burned my bridges.”

  “You had always wanted to go, hadn’t you?”

  “Always. Do you still sleep in our little room? Is that cottonwood still by the window?”

  Eric nodded eagerly and smiled up at his brother in the gray darkness.

  “You remember how we always said the leaves were whispering when they rustled at night? Well, they always whispered to me about the sea. Sometimes they said names out of the geography books. In a high wind they had a desperate sound, like something trying to tear loose.”

  “How funny, Nils,” said Eric dreamily, resting his chin on his hand. “That tree still talks like that, and ‘most always it talks to me about you.”

  They sat a while longer, watching the stars. At last Eric whispered anxiously: “Hadn’t we better go back now? Mother will get tired waiting for us.” They rose and took a short cut home, through the pasture.

  II

  The next morning Nils woke with the first flood of light that came with dawn. The white-plastered walls of his room reflected the glare that shone through the thin window-shades, and he found it impossible to sleep. He dressed hurriedly and slipped down the hall and up the back stairs to the half-story room which he used to share with his little brother. Eric, in a skimpy night-shirt, was sitting on the edge of the bed, rubbing his eyes, his pale yellow hair standing up in tufts all over his head. When he saw Nils, he murmured something confusedly and hustled his long legs into his trousers. “I didn’t expect you’d be up so early, Nils,” he said, as his head emerged from his blue shirt.

  “Oh, you thought I was a dude, did you?” Nils gave him a playful tap which bent the tall boy up like a clasp-knife. “See here; I must teach you to box.” Nils thrust his hands into his pockets and walked about. “You haven’t changed things much up here. Got most of my old traps, haven’t you?”

  He took down a bent, withered piece of sapling that hung over the dresser. “If this isn’t the stick Lou Sandberg killed himself with!”

  The boy looked up from his shoe-lacing.

  “Yes; you never used to let me play with that. Just how did he do it, Nils? You were with father when he found Lou, weren’t you?”

  “Yes. Father was going off to preach somewhere, and, as we drove along, Lou’s place looked sort of forlorn, and we thought we’d stop and cheer him up. When we found him father said he’d been dead a couple days. He’d tied a piece of binding twine round his neck, made a noose in each end, fixed the nooses over the ends of a bent stick, and let the stick spring straight; strangled himself.”

  “What made him kill himself such a silly way?”

  The simplicity of the boy’s question set Nils laughing. He clapped little Eric on the shoulder. “What made him such a silly as to kill himself at all, I should say!”

  “Oh, well! But his hogs had the cholera, and all up and died on him, didn’t they?”

  “Sure they did; but he didn’t have cholera; and there were plenty of hogs left in the world, weren’t there?”

  “Well, but, if they weren’t his, how could they do him any good?” Eric asked, in astonishment.

  “Oh, scat! He could have had lots of fun with other people’s hogs. He was a chump, Lou Sandberg. To kill yourself for a pig — think of that, now!” Nils laughed all the way downstairs, and quite embarrassed little Eric, who fell to scrubbing his face and hands at the tin basin. While he was patting his wet hair at the kitchen looking-glass, a heavy tread sounded on the stairs. The boy dropped his comb. “Gracious, there’s Mother. We must have talked too long.” He hurried out to the shed, slipped on his overalls, and disappeared with the milking-pails.

  Mrs. Ericson came in, wearing a clean white apron, her black hair shining from the application of a wet brush.

  “Good morning, Mother. Can’t I make the fire for you?”

  “No, thank you, Nils. It’s no trouble to make a cob fire, and I like to manage the kitchen stove myself.” Mrs. Ericson paused with a shovel full of ashes in her hand. “I expect you will be wanting to see your brothers as soon as possible. I’ll take you up to Anders’ place this morning. He’s threshing, and most of our boys are over there.”

  “Will Olaf be there?”

  Mrs. Ericson went on taking out the ashes, and spoke between shovels. “No; Olaf’s wheat is all in, put away in his new barn. He got six thousand bushel this year. He’s going to town to-day to get men to finish roofing his barn.”

  “So Olaf is building a new barn?” Nils asked absently.

  “Biggest one in the county, and almost done. You’ll likely be here for the barn-raising. He’s going to have a supper and a dance as soon as everybody’s done threshing. Says it keeps the voters in a good humor. I tell him that’s all nonsense; but Olaf has a long head for politics.”

  “Does Olaf farm all Cousin Henrik’s land?”

  Mrs. Ericson frowned as she blew into the faint smoke curling up about the cobs. “Yes; he holds it in trust for the children, Hilda and her brothers. He keeps strict account of everything he raises on it, and puts the proceeds out at compound interest for them.”

  Nils smiled as he watched the little flames shoot up. The door of the back stairs opened, and Hilda emerged, her arms behind her, buttoning up her long gingham apron as she came. He nodded to her gaily, and she twinkled at him out of her little blue eyes, set far apart over her wide cheek-bones.

  “There, Hilda, you grind the coffee — and just put in an extra handful; I expect your Cousin Nils likes his strong,” said Mrs. Ericson, as she went out to the shed.

  Nils turned to look at the little girl, who gripped the coffee-grinder between her knees and ground so hard that her two braids bobbed and her face flushed under its broad spattering of freckles. He noticed on her middle finger something that had not been there last night, and that had evidently been put on for company: a tiny gold ring with a clumsily set garnet stone. As her hand went round and round he touched the ring with the tip of his finger, smiling.

  Hilda glanced toward the shed door through which Mrs. Ericson had disappeared. “My Cousin Clara gave me that,” she whispered bashfully. “She’s Cousin Olaf’s wife.”

  III

  Mrs. Olaf Ericson — Clara Vavrika, as many people still called her — was moving restlessly about her big bare house that morning. Her husband had left for the county town before his wife was out of bed — her lateness in rising was one of the many things the Ericson family had against her. Clara seldom came downstairs before eight o’clock, and this morning she was even later, for she had dressed with unusual care. She put on, however, only a tight-fitting black dress, which people thereabouts thought very plain. She was a tall, dark woman of thirty, with a rather sallow complexion and a touch of dull salmon red in her cheeks, where the blood seemed to burn under her brown skin. Her hair, parted evenly above her low forehead, was so black that there were distinctly blue lights in it. Her black eyebrows were delicate half-moons and her lashes were long and heavy. Her eyes slanted a little, as if she had a strain of Tartar or gypsy blood, and were sometimes full of fiery determination and sometimes dull and opaque. Her expression was never altogether amiable; was often, indeed, distinctly sullen, or, when she was animated, sarcastic. She was most attractive in profile, for then one saw to advantage her small, well-shaped head and delicate ears, and felt at once that here was a very positive, if not an altogether pleasing, personality.

  The entire management of Mrs. Olaf’s household devolved upon her aunt, Johanna Vavrika, a superstitious, doting woman of fifty. When Clara was a little girl her mother died, and Johanna’s life had been spent in ungrudging service to her niece. Clara, like many self-willed and discontented persons, was really very apt, without knowing it, to do as other people told her, and to let her destiny be decided for her by intelligences much below her own. It was her Aunt Johanna who had humored and spoiled her in her girlhood, who had got her off to Chicago to study piano, and who had finally persuaded her to marry Olaf Ericson as the best match she would be likely to make in that part of the country. Johanna Vavrika had been deeply scarred by smallpox in the old country. She was short and fat, homely and jolly and sentimental. She was so broad, and took such short steps when she walked, that her brother, Joe Vavrika, always called her his duck. She adored her niece because of her talent, because of her good looks and masterful ways, but most of all because of her selfishness.

  Clara’s marriage with Olaf Ericson was Johanna’s particular triumph. She was inordinately proud of Olaf’s position, and she found a sufficiently exciting career in managing Clara’s house, in keeping it above the criticism of the Ericsons, in pampering Olaf to keep him from finding fault with his wife, and in concealing from every one Clara’s domestic infelicities. While Clara slept of a morning, Johanna Vavrika was bustling about, seeing that Olaf and the men had their breakfast, and that the cleaning or the butter-making or the washing was properly begun by the two girls in the kitchen. Then, at about eight o’clock, she would take Clara’s coffee up to her, and chat with her while she drank it, telling her what was going on in the house. Old Mrs. Ericson frequently said that her daughter-in-law would not know what day of the week it was if Johanna did not tell her every morning. Mrs. Ericson despised and pitied Johanna, but did not wholly dislike her. The one thing she hated in her daughter-in-law above everything else was the way in which Clara could come it over people. It enraged her that the affairs of her son’s big, barnlike house went on as well as they did, and she used to feel that in this world we have to wait over-long to see the guilty punished. “Suppose Johanna Vavrika died or got sick?” the old lady used to say to Olaf. “Your wife wouldn’t know where to look for her own dish-cloth.” Olaf only shrugged his shoulders. The fact remained that Johanna did not die, and, although Mrs. Ericson often told her she was looking poorly, she was never ill. She seldom left the house, and she slept in a little room off the kitchen. No Ericson, by night or day, could come prying about there to find fault without her knowing it. Her one weakness was that she was an incurable talker, and she sometimes made trouble without meaning to.

  This morning Clara was tying a wine-colored ribbon about her throat when Johanna appeared with her coffee. After putting the tray on a sewing-table, she began to make Clara’s bed, chattering the while in Bohemian.

  “Well, Olaf got off early, and the girls are baking. I’m going down presently to make some poppy-seed bread for Olaf. He asked for prune preserves at breakfast, and I told him I was out of them, and to bring some prunes and honey and cloves from town.”

  Clara poured her coffee. “Ugh! I don’t see how men can eat so much sweet stuff. In the morning, too!”

  Her aunt chuckled knowingly. “Bait a bear with honey, as we say in the old country.”

  “Was he cross?” her niece asked indifferently.

  “Olaf? Oh, no! He was in fine spirits. He’s never cross if you know how to take him. I never knew a man to make so little fuss about bills. I gave him a list of things to get a yard long, and he didn’t say a word; just folded it up and put it in his pocket.”

  “I can well believe he didn’t say a word,” Clara remarked with a shrug. “Some day he’ll forget how to talk.”

  “Oh, but they say he’s a grand speaker in the Legislature. He knows when to keep quiet. That’s why he’s got such influence in politics. The people have confidence in him.” Johanna beat up a pillow and held it under her fat chin while she slipped on the case. Her niece laughed.

  “Maybe we could make people believe we were wise, Aunty, if we held our tongues. Why did you tell Mrs. Ericson that Norman threw me again last Saturday and turned my foot? She’s been talking to Olaf.”

  Johanna fell into great confusion. “Oh, but, my precious, the old lady asked for you, and she’s always so angry if I can’t give an excuse. Anyhow, she needn’t talk; she’s always tearing up something with that motor of hers.”

  When her aunt clattered down to the kitchen, Clara went to dust the parlor. Since there was not much there to dust, this did not take very long. Olaf had built the house new for her before their marriage, but her interest in furnishing it had been short-lived. It went, indeed, little beyond a bath-tub and her piano. They had disagreed about almost every other article of furniture, and Clara had said she would rather have her house empty than full of things she didn’t want. The house was set in a hillside, and the west windows of the parlor looked out above the kitchen yard thirty feet below. The east windows opened directly into the front yard. At one of the latter, Clara, while she was dusting, heard a low whistle. She did not turn at once, but listened intently as she drew her cloth slowly along the round of a chair. Yes, there it was:

  “I dreamt that I dwelt in ma-a-arble halls,”

  She turned and saw Nils Ericson laughing in the sunlight, his hat in his hand, just outside the window. As she crossed the room he leaned against the wire screen. “Aren’t you at all surprised to see me, Clara Vavrika?”

  “No; I was expecting to see you. Mother Ericson telephoned Olaf last night that you were here.”

  Nils squinted and gave a long whistle. “Telephoned? That must have been while Eric and I were out walking. Isn’t she enterprising? Lift this screen, won’t you?”

  Clara lifted the screen, and Nils swung his leg across the window-sill. As he stepped into the room she said: “You didn’t think you were going to get ahead of your mother, did you?”

  He threw his hat on the piano. “Oh, I do sometimes. You see, I’m ahead of her now. I’m supposed to be in Anders’ wheat-field. But, as we were leaving, Mother ran her car into a soft place beside the road and sank up to the hubs. While they were going for horses to pull her out, I cut away behind the stacks and escaped.” Nils chuckled. Clara’s dull eyes lit up as she looked at him admiringly.

  “You’ve got them guessing already. I don’t know what your mother said to Olaf over the telephone, but he came back looking as if he’d seen a ghost, and he didn’t go to bed until a dreadful hour — ten o’clock, I should think. He sat out on the porch in the dark like a graven image. It had been one of his talkative days, too.” They both laughed, easily and lightly, like people who have laughed a great deal together; but they remained standing.