Thekla said confusedly that something sounded like a cat crying.
"And you talking like that it frightened me; maybe I was wrong
to make such bargains ------"

"Then don't make it," said Lieders, curtly, "I aint asking you."

But Thekla drew a long breath and straightened herself,
saying, "Yes, I make it, papa, I make it."

"Well, put another stick of wood in the stove, will you, now you are up?"
said Lieders, shrugging his shoulders, "or I'll freeze in spite of you!
It seems to me it grows colder every minute."

But all that day he was unusually gentle with Thekla.
He talked of his youth and the struggles of the early days of the firm;
he related a dozen tales of young Lossing, all illustrating some
admirable trait that he certainly had not praised at the time.
Never had he so opened his heart in regard to his own ideals of art,
his own ambitions. And Thekla listened, not always comprehending
but always sympathizing; she was almost like a comrade,
Kurt thought afterward.

The next morning, he was surprised to have her appear
equipped for the street, although it was bitterly cold.
She wore her garb of ceremony, a black alpaca gown, with a
white crocheted collar neatly turned over the long black,
broadcloth cloak in which she had taken pride for the last five years;
and her quilted black silk bonnet was on her gray head.
When she put up her foot to don her warm overshoes Kurt saw
that the stout ankles were encased in white stockings.