"Yes," Lieders repeated in German, "a bad bargain for thee, that is sure.
But thou hast been a good bargain for me. Here! I promise.
Not this day. Give me the coffee."

He had seasons, all the morning, of wondering over his meekness,
and his agreement to be tied up again, at night. But still,
what did a day matter? a man humors women's notions; and starving
was so tedious. Between whiles he elaborated a scheme to attain
his end. How easy to outwit the silly Thekla! His eyes shone,
as he hid the little, sharp knife up his cuff. "Let her tie me!"
says Lieders, "I keep my word. To-morrow I be out of this.
He won't git a man like me, pretty soon!"

Thekla went about her daily tasks, with her every-day air;
but, now and again, that same pucker of thought returned
to her forehead; and, more than once, Lieders saw her stand
over some dish, poising her spoon in air, too abstracted
to notice his cynical observation.

The dinner was more elaborate than common, and Thekla had broached
a bottle of her currant wine. She gravely drank Lieders's health.
"And many good days, papa," she said.

Lieders felt a queer movement of pity. After the table
was cleared, he helped his wife to wash and wipe the dishes
as his custom was of a Sunday or holiday. He wiped dishes as
he did everything, neatly, slowly, with a careful deliberation.
Not until the dishes were put away and the couple were seated,
did Thekla speak.