in front of her. Then she
shrank together, and crossed her slender arms, as if she were cringing
from a blow.

"You needn't shiver so, I shall not beat you," said the smith. Her lips
parted, but no words came at first.

"Let me--let me go--I--don't want to be in your way any more," she
stammered at last.

Fausch sank into the chair, close in front of her: he was now like a
block, barring her way. "Don't try it," said he, "you know me--don't
you try to run away, I should have you brought back!" He threw his arm
over the back of the chair, and the sudden movement made her shrink
again, as if he had meant to strike her.

"No, no, I will stay," she whispered, trembling.

He leaned forward and gazed long at his beautiful wife, from head to
foot. "You have nobody left," he said slowly. "Your people are all
dead. That is why you took me, as you told me, for the sake of a home.
But--you have one thing--a pretty face--you have that! And Ludwig found
that out too."

Stephen spat.

"He--we--it all came over us so"--Maria began to explain in a
frightened tone.

"Ha, ha!" laughed the smith, and grasped her wrist, which his hand
encircled like a handcuff, and shook her.

She cried out.

"Be still," he commanded, "I shall not beat you." Then he pushed her
from him. She slipped away to the back part of the room, found her
knitting, dropped into a chair and began to put the stitches in order.

"When is the child coming?" asked Fausch after a while, speaking over
his shoulder. Obediently she put her hand to her forehead and thought.
"It will be in the summer," she said humbly.

Stephen got up. He took off his leather apron and went into the next
room. After a time he came back in his Sunday coat, passed his wife
without a word, and went out of the door. He made his usual trip to the
tavern as his custom was on Sundays. It was late when he came home.

Chapter II

Maria, the smith's wife, had not been spoiled. At home her father and
her brothers had beaten her, and now that they were all dead, although
indeed, as Fausch's wife, she had no more blows to endure, yet her life
with Stephen was none the easier because he did not strike her, as
others might have done; for Stephen was a violent man--though his will
was violent rather than his fists. No one else had a will of such a
bull-like obstinacy. For this reason many pitied his wife, and this was
why she cringed; she had grown used to cringin