Bewildered and more touched than he cared to feel, himself, Lossing still made a feeble stand for discipline.  “I don’t see how Lieders can expect me to take him back again,” he began.

“He aint expecting you, Mr. Lossing, it’s me!”

“But didn’t Lieders tell you I told him I would never take him back?”

“No, sir, no, Mr. Lossing, it was not that, it was you said it would be a cold day that you would take him back; and it was git so cold yesterday, so I think, ’Now it would be a cold day to-morrow and Mr. Lossing he can take Kurt back.’  And it is the most coldest day this year!”

Lossing burst into a laugh, perhaps he was glad to have the Western sense of humor come to the rescue of his compassion.  “Well, it was a cold day for you to come all this way for nothing,” said he.  “You go home and tell Lieders to report to-morrow.”

Kurt’s manner of receiving the news was characteristic.  He snorted in disgust:  “Well, I did think he had more sand than to give in to a woman!” But after he heard the whole story he chuckled:  “Yes, it was that way he said, and he must do like he said; but that was a funny way you done, Thekla.  Say, mamma, yesterday, was you look out for the cat or to find how cold it been?”

“Never you mind, papa,” said Thekla, “you remember what you promised if I git you back?”

Lieders’s eyes grew dull; he flung his arms out, with a long sigh. 
“No, I don’t forget, I will keep my promise, but—­it is
like the handcuffs, Thekla, it is like the handcuffs!”
In a second, however, he added, in a changed tone,
“But thou art a kind jailer, mamma, more like a comrade. 
And no, it was not fair to thee—­I know that now, Thekla.”

THE FACE OF FAILURE

After the week’s shower the low Iowa hills looked vividly green.  At the base of the first range of hills the Blackhawk road winds from the city to the prairie.  From its starting-point, just outside the city limits, the wayfarer may catch bird’s-eye glimpses of the city, the vast river that the Iowans love, and the three bridges tying three towns to the island arsenal.  But at one’s elbow spreads Cavendish’s melon farm.  Cavendish’s melon farm it still is, in current phrase, although Cavendish, whose memory is honored by lovers of the cantaloupe melon, long ago departed to raise melons for larger markets; and still a weather-beaten sign creaks from a post announcing to the world that “the celebrated Cavendish Melons are for Sale here!” To-day the melon-vines were softly shaded by rain-drops.  A pleasant sight they made, spreading for acres in front of the green-houses where mushrooms and early vegetables strove to outwit the seasons, and before the brown cottage in which Cavendish had begun a successful career.  The black roof-tree of the cottage sagged in the middle, and the weather-boarding was dingy with