``You SHALL be here to-morrow! If you don't wish young Heilig
here for your own sake, you must show consideration for your
parents. Are they to be deprived of their Sunday afternoon? You
have never done this before, Hilda. You have never forgotten us
before.''

Hilda hung her head; after a moment she unrolled her sleeves,
laid aside her apron and set out. She was repentant toward her
father, but she felt that Otto was to blame. She determined to
make him suffer for it--how easy it was to make him suffer, and
how pleasant to feel that this big fellow was her slave! She
went straight up to him. ``So you complained of me, did you?''
she said scornfully, though she knew well that he had not, that
he could not have done anything that even seemed mean.

He flushed. ``No--no,'' he stammered. ``No, indeed, Hilda.
Don't think--''

She looked contempt. ``Well, you've won. Come down Sunday
afternoon. I suppose I'll have to endure it.''

``Hilda, you're wrong. I will NOT come!'' He was angry, but his
mind was confused. He loved her with all the strength of his
simple, straightforward nature. Therefore he appeared at his
worst before her--usually either incoherent or dumb. It was not
surprising that whenever it was suggested that only a superior
man could get on so well as he did, she always answered: ``He
works twice as hard as any one else, and you don't need much
brains if you'll work hard.''