I finally said if he had ended it all she must cheer up, because it might be for the best.  She considered this sadly and said she didn’t believe dear Clyde had been prepared to die.  I could see she was remembering old things that had been taught her in Sabbath school about God and wickedness and the bad place, so I cheered her on that point.  I told her they hadn’t been burning people for about thirty years now, the same not being considered smart any longer in the best religious circles.  I also tried in a delicate manner to convince her that her boy would never end it all by any free act of his.  I offered to bet her a large sum of money on this at any odds she wanted—­she could write her own ticket.  I said I knew men well enough to be certain that with this one it would be a long life but a merry one.  Gee!  The idea of this four-carder hurting himself!

And I had to cheer her up on another point.  This was that she didn’t have about three babies, all the image of their father.  Yes, sir; she was grieving sorely about that.  It give me a new line on her.  I saw all at once she was mostly mother—­a born one.  Couldn’t ever be anything else and hadn’t ever really felt anything but mothersome to this here wandering treasure of hers.  It give me kind of a shock.  It made me feel so queer I wanted to swear.

Well, I wrastled with that mulish female seven straight days to make her leave that twelve-hour job of hers and come out here with me.  I tried everything.  I even told her what with long hours and bum food she was making herself so old that her boy wouldn’t give her a second look when he got back.  That rattled her.  She took hold of her face and said that massage cream would take all those silly lines out when she got time to rub it in properly; and as for the gray in her hair, she could never bring herself to use a dye, but if Clyde come back she might apply a little of the magic remedy that restores the natural colour.  She also said in plain words that to come out here with me would look like deserting her boy.  Do you get that?

“Dear Clyde is so sensitive,” she says.  “I couldn’t bear the thought of his coming back and finding that I had left our home.”

My work was cut for me, all right.  I guess I’d failed if I hadn’t been helped by her getting a sick spell from worry over what the good God would do to Clyde if he should end it all in some nasty old river, and from the grocery being sold to a party that had his own cashier.  But I won, she being too sick to hunt another job just then.  A least I got a fair compromise.

She wouldn’t come here to live with me, but she remembered that Clyde had often talked of Southern California, where he had once gone with genial friends in a private car.  He had said that some day when he had acquired the means he would keep a home there.  So she was willing to go there herself and start a home for him.  I saw it was the best I could get from her, so I applauded.