“You give me a pain, you sure do,” Jessie broke in. “You get right out and hustle gold, and leave things of that sort to others.”

“But I don’t mind doing it, truth I don’t,” Scipio expostulated mildly. “I just thought it would save you–”

Jessie gave an artificial sigh.

“You tire me. Do you think I don’t know my work? I’m here to do the chores–and well I know it. You’re here to do a man’s work, same as any other man. You get out and find the gold, I can look after the house–if you can call it a house,” she added contemptuously.

Her eyes were quite hopeless as she let them wander over the frowsiness in the midst of which she sat. She was particularly discontented this morning. Not only had her thoughts been rudely dragged back from the seductive contemplation of the doings of the wealthy ones as the dime fiction-writer sees them, but there was a feeling of something more personal. It was something which she hugged to her bosom as a priceless pearl of enjoyment in the midst of a barren, rock-bound life of squalor.

The sight of him meandering about the room recalled these things. Thoughts, while they troubled her, yet had power to stimulate and excite her; thoughts which she almost dreaded, but which caused her exquisite delight. She must get rid of him.

But as she looked about the room something very like dismay assailed her. There were the hated household duties confronting her; duties she was longing to be free of, duties which she was tempted to abandon altogether, with everything else that concerned her present sordid life.

But Scipio knew none of this. His unsuspicious nature left him utterly blinded to the inner workings of her indolent, selfish spirit, and was always ready to accept blame for her ill-humors. Now he hurriedly endeavored to make amends.

“Of course you can, Jess,” he said eagerly. “I don’t guess there’s another woman around who can manage things like you. You don’t never grumble at things, and goodness knows I couldn’t blame you any, if you did. But–but ther’ seems such a heap to be done–for you to do,” he went on, glancing with mild vengefulness at the litter. “Say,” he cried, with a sudden lightening and inspiration, “maybe I could buck some wood for you before I go. You’ll need a good fire to dry the kiddies by after you washened ’em. It sure wouldn’t kep me long.”

But the only effect of his persistent kindliness was to further exasperate his wife. Every word, every gentle intention on his part made her realize her own shortcomings more fully. In her innermost heart she knew that she had no desire to do the work; she hated it, she was lazy. She knew that he was far better than she; good, even noble, in spite of his mental powers being so lamentably at fault. All this she knew, and it weakly maddened her because she could not rise above herself and show him all the woman that was so deeply hidden under her cloak of selfishness.

Then there was that other thought, that something that was her secret. She had that instinct of good that made it a guilty secret. Yet she knew that, as the world sees things, she had as yet done no great harm.

And therein lay the mischief. Had she been a vicious woman nothing would have troubled her, but she was not vicious. She was not even less than good in her moral instincts. Only she was weak, hopelessly weak, and so all these things drove her to a shrewish discontent and peevishness.

“Oh, there’s no peace where you are,” she cried, passionately flinging her book aside and springing to her feet. “Do you think I can’t look to this miserable home you’ve given me? I hate it. Yes, I hate it all. Why I married you I’m sure I don’t know. Look at it. Look round you, and if you have any idea of things at all what can you see but a miserable hog pen? Yes, that’s it, a hog pen. And we are the hogs. You and me, and–and the little ones. Why haven’t you got some ‘get up’ about you? Why don’t you earn some money, get some somehow so we can live as we’ve been used to living? Why don’t you do something, instead of pottering around here trying to do chores that aren’t your work, an’ you can’t do right anyway? You make me mad–you do indeed. But there! There’s no use talking to you, none whatever!”

“I’m sorry, Jess. I’m real sorry you feel like this.”

Scipio left the table and moved to the cupboard, into which he mechanically began to stow the provender. It was an unconscious action and almost pathetic in its display of that kindly purpose, which, where his wife was concerned, was never-failing. Jessie saw, angry as she was, and her fine eyes softened. Perhaps it was the maternal instinct underlying the selfishness that made her feel something akin to a pitying affection for her little husband.

She glanced down at the boiler of water, and mechanically gathered some of the tin plates together and proceeded to wash them.

“I’m kind of sorry, Zip,” she said. “I just didn’t mean all that. Only–only it makes me feel bad seeing all this around, and you–you always trying to do both a man’s and a woman’s work. Things are bad with us, so bad they seem hopeless. We’re right here with two kiddies and–and ourselves, and there’s practically no money and no prospects of there being any. It makes me want to cry. It makes me want to do something desperate. It makes me hate things–even those things I’ve no right to hate. No, no,” as the man tried to stop her, “don’t you say anything. Not a word till I’ve done. You see, I mayn’t feel like talking of these things again. Maybe I shan’t never have a chance of talking them again.”

She sighed and stared out of window.

“I want you to understand things as I see them, and maybe you’ll not blame me if I see them wrong. You’re too good for me, and I–I don’t seem grateful for your goodness. You work and think of others as no other man would do. You don’t know what it is to think of yourself. It’s me, and the children first with you, and, Zip–and you’ve no call to think much of me. Yes, I know what you’d say. I’m the most perfect woman on earth. I’m not. I’m not even good. If I were I’d be glad of all you try to do; I’d help you. But I don’t, and–and I just don’t seem able to. I’m always sort of longing and longing for the old days. I long for those things we can never have. I think–think always of folks with money, their automobiles, their grand houses, with lots and lots of good things to eat. And it makes me hate–all–all this. Oh, Zip, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m not good. But I’m not, and I–I–”

She broke off and dashed the back of her hand across her eyes in time to wipe away the great tears that threatened to roll down her rounded cheeks. In a moment Scipio was at her side, and one arm was thrust about her waist, and he seized one of her hands.

“You mustn’t to cry,” he said tenderly, as though she were a child. “You mustn’t, Jess–truth. You ain’t what you’re saying. You ain’t nothing like it. You’re dear and good, and it’s ’cause you’re that good and honest you’re saying all these things. Do you think I don’t know just how you’re suffering? Do you? Why, Jess, I know just everything about you, and it nigh breaks my heart to think of all I’ve brought you to. It ain’t you, Jess, it’s me who’s bad. It’s me who’s a fool. I hain’t no more sense than a buck rabbit, and I ain’t sure a new-littered pup couldn’t put me to sleep for savvee. Now don’t you go to crying. Don’t you indeed. I just can’t bear to see those beautiful eyes o’ yours all red and running tears. And, say, we sure have got better prospects than you’re figgering. You see, I’ve got a claim there’s no one else working on. And sure there’s minerals on it. Copper–or leastways it looks like copper, and there’s mica, an’ lots–an’ lots of stuff. I’ll sure find gold in that claim. It’s just a matter of keepin’ on. And I’m going to. And then, when we find it, what a blow-out we’ll have. We’ll get automobiles and houses, and–and we’ll have a bunch of sweet corn for supper, same as we had at a hotel once, and then–”

But the woman had suddenly drawn away from his embrace. She could stand no more of her little husband’s pathetic hopes. She knew. She knew, with the rest of the camp, the hopelessness of his quest, and even in her worst moments she had not the heart to destroy his illusions. It was no good, the hopelessness of it all came more than ever upon her.

“Zip dear,” she said, with a sudden, unwonted tenderness that had something strangely nervous in it, “don’t you get staying around here or I’ll keep right on crying. You get out to your work. I’m feeling better now, and you’ve–you’ve made things look kind of brighter,” she lied.

She glanced out of window, and the height of the sun seemed suddenly to startle her. Her more gentle look suddenly vanished and one of irritability swiftly replaced it.

“Now, won’t you let me help you with all these things?” Scipio coaxed.

But Jessie had seemingly quite forgotten her moment of tenderness.

“No,” she said sharply. “You get right out to work.” Then after a pause, with a sudden warming in her tone, “Think of Jamie and Vada. Think of them, and not of me. Their little lives are just beginning. They are quite helpless. You must work for them, and work as you’ve never done before. They are ours, and we love them. I love them. Yes”–with a harsh laugh–“better than myself. Don’t you think of me, Zip. Think of them, and work for them. Now be off. I don’t want you here.”

Scipio reluctantly enough accepted his dismissal. His wife’s sudden nervousness of manner was not hidden from him. He believed that she was seriously upset, and it pained and alarmed his gentle heart. But the cause of her condition did not enter into his calculations. How should it? The reason of things seemed to be something which his mind could neither grasp nor even inquire into. She was troubled, and he–well, it made him unhappy. She said go and work, work for the children. Ah, yes, her thoughts were for the children, womanly, unselfish thoughts just such as a good mother should have. So he went, full of a fresh enthusiasm for his work and for his object.

Meanwhile Jessie went on with her work. And strangely enough her nervousness increased as the moments went by, and a vague feeling of apprehension took hold of her. She hurried desperately. To get the table cleared was her chief concern. How she hated it. The water grew cold and greasy, and every time she dipped her cloth into it she shuddered. Again and again her eyes turned upon the window surveying the bright sunlight outside. The children playing somewhere beyond the door were ignored. She was even trying to forget them. She heard their voices, and they set her nerves jangling with each fresh peal of laughter, or shrill piping cry.

At last the last plate and enameled cup was washed and dried. The boiler was emptied and hung upon the wall. She swabbed the table carelessly and left it to dry. Then, with a rush, she vanished into the inner room.

The moments passed rapidly. There was no sound beyond the merry games of the twins squatting out in the sun, digging up the dusty soil with their fat little fingers. Jessie did not reappear.

At last a light, decided step sounded on the creek side of the house. It drew nearer. A moment or two later a shadow flitted across the window. Then suddenly a man’s head and shoulders filled up the opening. The head bent forward, craning into the room, and a pair of handsome eyes peered curiously round.

“Hi!” he cried in a suppressed tone. “Hi! Jessie!”

The bedroom curtain was flung aside, and Jessie, arrayed carefully in her best shirtwaist and skirt, suddenly appeared in the doorway. Her eyes were glowing with excitement and fear. But her rich coloring was alight with warmth, and the man stared in admiration. Yes, she was very good to look upon.