He hurried in to her. She had apparently begun to dress and then stopped; she was standing, leaning against the bureau, in a petticoat and a cheap little flannel dressing sack, her hair down. “Chris!” she cried again. “What’s the matter? Are you ill? Shall I send for the doctor? Speak! What’s the matter?” “I know I’m going to die!” she whispered. He was appalled. “Die! Minnie, my dear, what is it!” She collapsed in his arms; not in a faint, simply gave way, in a sort of dreadful limpness. He carried her to the bed and covered her up with a blanket, and stood looking down at her in helpless alarm. “Shall I telephone the doctor?” he asked. She nodded feebly, and he ran downstairs to do so. Then sat down by the bedside to wait. He would very much have liked to tidy the room a bit before the doctor came, but Minnie had clutched his hand tightly, lying with closed eyes and rigid face. He felt himself disgustingly petty to be troubled by details, by corsets on the bureau, an underskirt dangling on the gas bracket, a window curtain secured only by a pin.... Nothing better should be expected from a woman in her condition. And what did it matter? He tried to concentrate his attention on Minnie, but unhappily his eye fell upon a sort of waste tract under the bed, where in a tangle lay fluffy bits of hair, mouse-like rolls of dust, torn letters, stockings, toys of Sandra’s. The doctor came and Petersen went downstairs to Sandra. “Mother’s not well to-night,” he told her. “We’ll see if Uncle Chris can’t fix up some supper for his little girl.” Resolutely denying the emotions that were assailing him, disgust, impatience and despair, he went into the awful kitchen. “It can’t go on this way,” he said, half-aloud. “Ill or not, she could surely.... We’d better give up housekeeping if she can’t find a servant. We’d better board.” And the emotions suddenly mastered him. “This is filthy!” he cried. “This is horrible! You’d lose your soul in a mess like this! There isn’t, there can’t be any excuse for such a state of things!” He came out of the awful kitchen, banging the door, and, in a whisper, telephoned for Mrs. Hansen. Presently the doctor came down. “She’s in a very nervous state,” he said, “but there’s nothing physically wrong, as far as I can see. Morbid. Thinks she can’t live through it. That she’s going to die. Not unusual in her condition. If I were you, I’d see she didn’t over-exert herself. Persuade her to rest more. Get a good servant, Mr. Petersen; you can afford it. Try to interest the little lady in sewing, books, that sort of thing.” Mr. Petersen went upstairs again, to find Minnie in tears. He told her what the doctor had said. “But I don’t _want_ a servant!” she cried. “No, Chris! I’d far rather have the extra money.” “I’ll give you the extra money beside,” he assured her, in surprise. “You know, my dear, you only need mention----”