I forget how many times Anna Forge “went home to her mother”, if I ever knew. She threatened to do it a couple of times a week. About twice a year she made the threat good. On these occasions she packed all her personal clothes and possessions in several bags and telescope valises, took a half day to “wash and iron the children”; called Uncle Joe Fodder’s depot hack and “left her husband in style”, as Uncle Joe put it. She returned to a grass-widowed mother who lived in a small manufacturing city out in York State. This mother sympathized with her the first day; listened in silence to her troubles the second; was indifferent to them the third; tolerated them the fourth; endured them the fifth; “had words” with her daughter the sixth; quarreled with her openly on the seventh and ordered her out of the house on the eighth. Then back Anna Forge returned to John, entered her own home haughtily, failed to speak to him until the third day, then started around the six-month cycle all over. These semiannual trips were gala days in the lives of Nathan and his sister,—until he began to realize the tragedy that sponsored them. One night he came running over to my house in great distress. He “whistled me out” and I found him sobbing distraughtly. “Pa an’ Ma have had an awful fight, Billy!” he told me. “Pa wouldn’t give her no money for a dress to-day. But when he came home from downtown he fetched one he’d bought himself. Ma looked at it and said she wouldn’t be seen in the thing. Pa says she could wear it or go naked. They got to havin’ words, Billy, and pretty soon Ma picked up the butcher knife and says by the White Christ she’d cut Pa’s throat. And Pa chucked a blue-glass pitcher at her all full o’ milk and said she was full o’ high-flown Yankee notions and he’d take ’em out of her. Ma says she’d go back to her mother and Pa says, ‘Yes, that’d be a good scheme, only in a few days she’d have a fight with her mother and be right back again.’ Then Ma says she’d chuck herself in the river. And Pa says she didn’t have the guts, And Ma says oh, she didn’t have, did she, and started right out of the house. She’s off toward the river now, Billy, and I’m scared stiff she’ll do it.” “You mean she’s went to commit suicide?” I demanded aghast. “Yeah!—And her forehead was all bloody where the pitcher struck her.” “How long’s she been gone?” “She just started. I came right over. Pa sent me up to bed and I skipped out over the woodshed roof.” “Can she swim?” “No! Anyhow, people that’s committing suicide don’t care whether they can swim! Most of ’em don’t!” “Gosh, she may really kill herself. Whatcher want me to do?” “Come with me, Billy. Maybe we can stop her!” We reached the river but found no woman. Nathan felt for a certainty his mother had cast herself into the water and would not be consoled. He knelt upon the close-cropped grass and with face on his hands he sobbed distressingly.