he paper to-day and would drive over to
Gnesen and fetch the poison for the rats himself. How was it that she
felt so quiet about it? She could not understand it herself. Even if
her heart did beat a little faster, it was not from fear, but only
from expectation of something good, joyful, long hoped for. Fifteen
years--ah, fifteen long years.

She continued to murmur words of prayer, whilst her thoughts were with
her husband on his way to the chemist's in Gnesen. But suddenly she
pressed her lips tightly together. Her mouth looked very inflexible.
She forgot that she was praying--her heart was filled with fierce
curses and accusations. Her mother, who had sold her--sold her like one
sells a young calf (why not call a spade a spade?)--was dead.

Mrs. Kluge had not long been able to enjoy the thought that the little
house which she had formerly rented at last was hers, and that she had
no longer to make dresses at any price for the farmers' wives, who were
everlastingly grumbling. She had not long been able to enjoy the
thought, and that served her right!

The woman's eyes gleamed as though with satisfaction. Her mother had
had to leave everything behind which she had stipulated for as payment
for her daughter. Now she had long ago turned to dust. But the other
culprit, the buyer? Oh, Mr. Tiralla had grown stout, _he_ did not look
as though he also would soon be lying under ground.

"Holy saints! Holy Mother!" She raised her hands in prayer. She did not
exactly know how she was to put her prayer into words, it would sound
too [Pg 25] awful if she were to say, "Let him die; he _must_ die!" It
was as though she were going to expose herself in her nakedness to the
Holy Virgin and all the saints. No, that would not do.

She let her hands fall in her perplexity. What now? But then it
suddenly occurred to her, why need she tell everything to the saints?
Why trouble them? Surely it would be enough if she secured their help.
So she prayed: "Holy Mary, pure Virgin, oh, bring about by means of thy
divine power and that of all the saints that he really goes to Gnesen,
that he at last fetches the poison--the poison for the rats. I entreat
thee, I implore thee!"

She wrung her hands and wept bitterly; she hit her breast with such
force that she hurt herself. What she had suffered from her husband,
and would suffer again and again. He would not leave her in peace, and
she hated him, she loathed his eager, outstretched hands. If o