Olsen shook his head.  “I hate to trouble you, Mr. Lieders,” said he in his slow, undecided tones, “please excuse me,” with which he gathered up the little man into his strong arms and slung him over his shoulders, as easily as he would sling a sack of meal.  It was a vent for Mrs. Olsen’s bubbling indignation to make a dive for Lieders’s heels and hold them, while Carl backed down-stairs.  But Lieders did not make the least resistance.  He allowed them to carry him into the room indicated by his wife, and to lay him bound on the plump feather bed.  It was not his bedroom but the sacred “spare room,” and the bed was part of its luxury.  Thekla ran in, first, to remove the embroidered pillow shams and the dazzling, silken “crazy quilt” that was her choicest possession.

Safely in the bed, Lieders opened his eyes and looked from one face to the other, his lip curling.  “You can’t keep me this way all the time.  I can do it in spite of you,” said he.

“Well, I think you had ought to be ashamed of yourself, Mr. Lieders!” Mrs. Olsen burst out, in a tremble between wrath and exertion, shaking her little, plump fist at him.

But the placid Carl only nodded, as in sympathy, saying, “Well, I am sorry you feel so bad, Mr. Lieders.  I guess we got to go now.”

Mrs. Olsen looked as if she would have liked to exhort Lieders further; but she shrugged her shoulders and followed her husband in silence.

“I wished you’d stay to breakfast, now you’re here,” Thekla urged out of her imperious hospitality; had Kurt been lying there dead, the next meal must have been offered, just the same.  “I know, you aint got time to git Mr. Olsen his breakfast, Freda, before he has got to go to the shops, and my tea-kettle is boiling now, and the coffee’ll be ready—­ I guess you had better stay.”

But Mrs. Olsen seconded her husband’s denial, and there was nothing left Thekla but to see them to the door.  No sooner did she return than Lieders spoke.  “Aint you going to take off them ropes?” said he.

“Not till you promise you won’t do it.”

Silence.  Thekla, brushing a few tears from her eyes, scrutinized the ropes again, before she walked heavily out of the room.  She turned the key in the door.

Directly a savory steam floated through the hall and pierced the cracks about the door; then Thekla’s footsteps returned; they echoed over the uncarpeted boards.

She had brought his breakfast, cooked with the best of her homely skill.  The pork chops that he liked had been fried, there was a napkin on the tray, and the coffee was in the best gilt cup and saucer.

“Here’s your breakfast, papa,” said she, trying to smile.

“I don’t want no breakfast,” said he.

She waited, holding the tray, and wistfully eying him.

“Take it ’way,” said he, “I won’t touch it if you stand till doomsday, lessen you untie me!”

“I’ll untie your arm, papa, one arm; you kin eat that way.”