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Jim four years ago； and there hasn't been a minute since then； day or night；
when I wouldn't have crawled back to him on my hands and knees if I
could。 But I couldn't。 He wouldn't have me now。 How could he？
How do I know you've quarreled？ I can see it in your eyes。 They look
just the way mine have felt for four years； that's how。 I met up with this
boy； and there wasn't anybody to do the turn for me that I'm trying to do
for you。 Now get this。 I left Jim because when he ate corn on the cob
he always closed his eyes and it drove me wild。 Don't laugh。〃
〃I'm not laughing；〃 said Terry。
〃Women are like that。 One nightwe was playing Fond du Lac； I
remember just as plainwe was eating supper before the show and Jim
reached for one of those big yellow ears； and buttered and salted it； and me
kind of hanging on to the edge of the table with my nails。 Seemed to me
if he shut his eyes when he put his teeth into that ear of corn I'd scream。
And he did。 And I screamed。 And that's all。〃
Terry sat staring at her with a wide…eyed stare； like a sleepwalker。
Then she wet her lips slowly。 〃But that's almost the very〃
〃Kid； go on back home。 I don't know whether it's too late or not； but
go anyway。 If you've lost him I suppose it ain't any more than you
deserve； but I hope to God you don't get your deserts this time。 He's
almost through。 If he sees you going he can't quit in the middle of his
song to stop you。 He'll know I put you wise； and he'll prob'ly half kill me
for it。 But it's worth it。 You get。〃
And Terrydazed； shaking； but gratefulfled。 Down the noisy aisle；
up the stairs； to the street。 Back to her rooming house。 Out again； with
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her suitcase； and into the right railroad station somehow； at last。 Not
another Wetona train until midnight。 She shrank into a remote corner of
the waiting room and there she huddled until midnight； watching the
entrances like a child who is fearful of ghosts in the night。
The hands of the station clock seemed fixed and immovable。 The
hour between eleven and twelve was endless。 She was on the train。 It
was almost morning。 It was morning。 Dawn was breaking。 She was
home！ She had the house key clutched tightly in her hand long before
she turned Schroeder's corner。 Suppose he had come home！ Suppose
he had jumped a town and come home ahead of his schedule。 They had
quarreled once before； and he had done that。
Up the front steps。 Into the house。 Not a sound。 She stood there a
moment in the early…morning half…light。 She peered into the dining room。
The table； with its breakfast debris； was as she had left it。 In the kitchen
the coffeepot stood on the gas stove。 She was home。 She was safe。
She ran up the stairs； got out of her clothes and into gingham morning
things。 She flung open windows everywhere。 Downstairs once more
she plunged into an orgy of cleaning。 Dishes； table； stove； floor； rugs。
She washed； scoured； swabbed； polished。 By eight o'clock she had done
the work that would ordinarily have taken until noon。 The house was
shining； orderly； and redolent of soapsuds。
During all this time she had been listening； listening； with her
subconscious ear。 Listening for something she had refused to name
definitely in her mind； but listening； just the same； waiting。
And then； at eight o'clock； it came。 The rattle of a key in the lock。
The boom of the front door。 Firm footsteps。
He did not go to meet her； and she did not go to meet him。 They
came together and were in each other's arms。 She was weeping。
〃Now； now； old girl。 What's there to cry about？ Don't； honey； don't。
It's all right。〃 She raised her head then； to look at him。 How fresh and
rosy and big he seemed； after that little sallow restaurant rat。
〃How did you get here？ How did you happen？〃
〃Jumped all the way from Ashland。 Couldn't get a sleeper； so I sat up
all night。 I had to come back and square things with you； Terry。 My
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mind just wasn't on my work。 I kept thinking how I'd talkedhow I'd
talked〃
〃Oh； Orville； don't！ I can't bear Have you had your breakfast？〃
〃Why； no。 The train was an hour late。 You know that Ashland
train。〃
But she was out of his arms and making for the kitchen。 〃You go and
clean up。 I'll have hot biscuits and everything in no time。 You poor boy。
No breakfast！〃
She made good her promise。 It could not have been more than half
an hour later when he was buttering his third feathery； golden…brown
biscuit。 But she had eaten nothing。 She watched him； and listened； and
again her eyes were somber； but for a different reason。 He broke open
his egg。 His elbow came up just a fraction of an inch。 Then he
remembered； and flushed like a schoolboy； and brought it down again；
carefully。 And at that she gave a tremulous cry； and rushed around the
table to him。
〃Oh； Orville！〃 She took the offending elbow in her two arms； and
bent and kissed the rough coat sleeve。
〃Why； Terry！ Don't； honey。 Don't！〃
〃Oh； Orville； listen〃
〃Yes。〃
〃Listen； Orville〃
〃I'm listening； Terry。〃
〃I've got something to tell you。 There's something you've got to
know。〃
〃Yes； I know it； Terry。 I knew you'd out with it； pretty soon； if I just
waited。〃
She lifted an amazed face from his shoulder then； and stared at him。
〃But how could you know？ You couldn't！ How could you？〃
He patted her shoulder then； gently。 〃I can always tell。 When you
have something on your mind you always take up a spoon of coffee； and
look at it； and kind of joggle it back and forth in the spoon； and then
dribble it back into the cup again； without once tasting it。 It used to get
me nervous； when we were first married； watching you。 But now I know
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it just means you're worried about something； and I wait； and pretty soon
〃
〃Oh； Orville！〃 she cried then。 〃Oh； Orville！〃
〃Now； Terry。 Just spill it； hon。 Just spill it to Daddy。 And you'll
feel better。〃
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Farmer in the Dell ＇1919＇
Old Ben Westerveld was taking it easy。 Every muscle taut； every
nerve tense； his keen eyes vainly straining to pierce the blackness of the
stuffy roomthere lay Ben Westerveld in bed； taking it easy。 And it was
hard。 Hard。 He wanted to get up。 He wanted so intensely to get up
that the mere effort of lying there made him ache all over。 His toes were
curled with the effort。 His fingers were clenched with it。 His breath
came short； and his thighs felt cramped。 Nerves。 But old Ben
Westerveld didn't know that。 What should a retired and well…to…do
farmer of fifty…eight know of nerves； especially when he has moved to the
city and is taking it easy？
If only he knew what time it was。 Here in Chicago you couldn't tell
whether it was four o'clock or seven unless you looked at your watch。 To
do that it was necessary to turn on the light。 And to