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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 turn on the light
meant that he would turn on； too； a flood of querulous protest from his
wife； Bella； who lay asleep beside him。
When for forty…five years of your life you have risen at four…thirty
daily； it is difficult to learn to loll。 To do it successfully； you must be a
natural… born loller to begin with and revert。 Bella Westerveld was and
had。 So there she lay； asleep。 Old Ben wasn't and hadn't。 So there he
lay； terribly wide… awake； wondering what made his heart thump so fast
when he was lying so still。 If it had been light； you could have seen the
lines of strained resignation in the sagging muscles of his patient face。
They had lived in the city for almost a year； but it was the same every
morning。 He would open his eyes； start up with one hand already
reaching for the limp； drab work…