"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.