``But she can't do that,'' objected Mrs. Brauner. ``She'd say it
was throwing herself at his head.''

``Not if I send her?'' Brauner frowned with a seeming of
severity. ``Not if I, her father, send her--for two chickens, as
we're out?'' Then he laughed. His fierceness was the family
joke when Hilda was small she used to say, ``Now, get mad,
father, and make little Hilda laugh!''

Hilda was behind the counter, a customer watching with fascinated
eyes the graceful, swift movements of her arms and hands as she
tied up a bundle. Her sleeves were rolled to her dimpled elbows,
and her arms were round and strong and white, and her skin was
fine and smooth. Her shoulders were wide, but not square; her
hips were narrow, her wrists, her hands, her head, small. She
looked healthy and vigorous and useful as well as beautiful.

When the customers had gone Brauner said: ``Go up to Schwartz
and Heilig, daughter, and ask them for two two-pound chickens.
And tell Otto Heilig you'll be glad to see him to-morrow.''

``But we don't need the chickens, now. We--'' Hilda's brow
contracted and her chin came out.

``Do as I tell you,'' said her father.

``MY children shall not sink to the disrespect of these days.''

``But I shan't be here to-morrow! I've made another
engagement.''