I know I can’t do anything but make trouble for you, I think.  I am going to Minneapolis tonight and from there as soon as I can either to New York or Chicago.  I will do as big things as I can.  I—­I can’t write I love you too much—­God keep you.

Until she heard the whistle which told her that the Minneapolis train was leaving town, she kept herself from thinking, from moving.  Then it was all over.  She had no plan nor desire for anything.

When she caught Kennicott looking at her over his newspaper she fled to his arms, thrusting the paper aside, and for the first time in years they were lovers.  But she knew that she still had no plan in life, save always to go along the same streets, past the same people, to the same shops.

III

A week after Erik’s going the maid startled her by announcing, “There’s a Mr. Valborg down-stairs say he vant to see you.”

She was conscious of the maid’s interested stare, angry at this shattering of the calm in which she had hidden.  She crept down, peeped into the living-room.  It was not Erik Valborg who stood there; it was a small, gray-bearded, yellow-faced man in mucky boots, canvas jacket, and red mittens.  He glowered at her with shrewd red eyes.

“You de doc’s wife?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Adolph Valborg, from up by Jefferson.  I’m Erik’s father.”

“Oh!” He was a monkey-faced little man, and not gentle.

“What you done wit’ my son?”

“I don’t think I understand you.”

“I t’ink you’re going to understand before I get t’rough!  Where is he?”

“Why, really——­I presume that he’s in Minneapolis.”

“You presume!” He looked through her with a contemptuousness such as she could not have imagined.  Only an insane contortion of spelling could portray his lyric whine, his mangled consonants.  He clamored, “Presume!  Dot’s a fine word!  I don’t want no fine words and I don’t want no more lies!  I want to know what you know!”

“See here, Mr. Valborg, you may stop this bullying right now.  I’m not one of your farmwomen.  I don’t know where your son is, and there’s no reason why I should know.”  Her defiance ran out in face of his immense flaxen stolidity.  He raised his fist, worked up his anger with the gesture, and sneered: 

“You dirty city women wit’ your fine ways and fine dresses!  A father come here trying to save his boy from wickedness, and you call him a bully!  By God, I don’t have to take nothin’ off you nor your husband!  I ain’t one of your hired men.  For one time a woman like you is going to hear de trut’ about what you are, and no fine city words to it, needer.”

“Really, Mr. Valborg——­”

“What you done wit’ him?  Heh?  I’ll yoost tell you what you done!  He was a good boy, even if he was a damn fool.  I want him back on de farm.  He don’t make enough money tailoring.  And I can’t get me no hired man!  I want to take him back on de farm.  And you butt in and fool wit’ him and make love wit’ him, and get him to run away!”