She took the pin from her mouth again, fixed down a fold of stuff, and said softly: “You little liar.” Mother had gone out of the room for her recipe book. He sat on his chair dumb with mortification. She stitched swiftly and unerringly. There was silence for some moments. Then he spoke: “I did not know you wanted me for the pleasure of plucking this crow,” he said. “I wanted you!” she exclaimed, looking up for the first time, “Who said I wanted you?” “No one. If you didn’t want me I may as well go.” The sound of stitching alone broke the silence for some moments, then she said deliberately: “What made you think I wanted you?” “I don’t care a damn whether you wanted me or whether you didn’t.” “It seems to upset you! And don’t use bad language. It is the privilege of those near and dear to one.” “That’s why you begin it, I suppose.” “I cannot remember——” she said loftily. He laughed sarcastically. “Well—if you’re so beastly cut up about it——” He put this tentatively, expecting the soft answer. But she refused to speak, and went on stitching. He fidgeted about, twisted his cap uncomfortably, and sighed. At last he said: “Well—you—have we done then?” She had the vast superiority, in that she was engaged in ostentatious work. She could fix the cloth, regard it quizzically, rearrange it, settle down and begin to sew before she replied. This humbled him. At last she said: “I thought so this afternoon.” “But, good God, Lettie, can’t you drop it?” “And then?”—the question startled him. “Why!—forget it,” he replied. “Well?”—she spoke softly, gently. He answered to the call like an eager hound. He crossed quickly to her side as she sat sewing, and said, in a low voice: “You do care something for me, don’t you, Lettie?” “Well,”—it was modulated kindly, a sort of promise of assent. “You have treated me rottenly, you know, haven’t you? You know I—well, I care a good bit.” “It is a queer way of showing it.” Her voice was now a gentle reproof, the sweetest of surrenders and forgiveness. He leaned forward, took her face in his hands, and kissed her, murmuring: “You are a little tease.” She laid her sewing in her lap, and looked up. The next day, Sunday, broke wet and dreary. Breakfast was late, and about ten o’clock we stood at the window looking upon the impossibility of our going to church.