ainst it. True, Mr. Schwitter had a little bar and
served the best liquors he could buy; but he discouraged rowdiness--had
been known to refuse to sell to boys under twenty-one and to men who had
already overindulged. The word went about that Schwitter's was no place
for a good time. Even Tillie's chicken and waffles failed against this
handicap.

By the middle of April the house-cleaning was done. One or two motor
parties had come out, dined sedately and wined moderately, and had gone
back to the city again. The next two weeks saw the weather clear. The
roads dried up, robins filled the trees with their noisy spring songs,
and still business continued dull.

By the first day of May, Tillie's uneasiness had become certainty. On
that morning Mr. Schwitter, coming in from the early milking, found her
sitting in the kitchen, her face buried in her apron. He put down the
milk-pails and, going over to her, put a hand on her head.

"I guess there's no mistake, then?"

"There's no mistake," said poor Tillie into her apron.

He bent down and kissed the back of her neck. Then, when she failed to
brighten, he tiptoed around the kitchen, poured the milk into pans,
and rinsed the buckets, working methodically in his heavy way. The
tea-kettle had boiled dry. He filled that, too. Then:--

"Do you want to see a doctor?"

"I'd better see somebody," she said, without looking up. "And--don't
think I'm blaming you. I guess I don't really blame anybody. As far as
that goes, I've wanted a child right along. It isn't the trouble I am
thinking of either."

He nodded. Words were unnecessary between them. He made some tea
clumsily and browned her a piece of toast. When he had put them on one
end of the kitchen table, he went over to her again.

"I guess I'd ought to have thought of this before, but all I thought of
was trying to get a little happiness out of life. And,"--he stroked
her arm,--"as far as I am concerned, it's been worth while, Tillie. No
matter what I've had to do, I've always looked forward to coming back
here to you in the evening. Maybe I don't say it enough, but I guess you
know I feel it all right."

Without looking up, she placed her hand over his.

"I guess we started wrong," he went on. "You can't build happiness on
what isn't right. You and I can manage well enough; but now that there's
going to be another, it looks different, somehow."

After that morning Tillie took up her burden stoically. The hope of
mo