Erna was in a splendid mood when she called on Nielsen that evening. In the first place, the young Norwegian-American had earned her gratitude. Secondly, and what is perhaps more important, Jimmy Allen had come into Landsmann’s both for the noon and the evening meal and had paid her humble devotion. She had agreed to spend to-morrow evening with him, but principally that she might add coal to the fire of his impatience by putting off her answer, which she had not formed as yet but in the existence of which she had succeeded in leading him to believe. Thirdly, she had had two more tilts with Landsmann and was victorious in both. Consequently, Erna was in high spirit. In addition, her greedy nature was looking forward to the new sensation that life might be on the point of offering her in Nielsen.

It was evident at once that he was likewise in the best of humor. His greeting of Erna was of the heartiest cordiality and cheer. And he required only a minute or two to settle her comfortably on the couch and to make her feel otherwise at home. She was not surprised. On the contrary, she entered immediately into the mood of the young writer’s hospitality.

“Well, Rat-wife, how’ve you been?” he commenced. “I haven’t seen you since this morning.”

“Why do you call me Rat-wife?”

“Because you’re a professional rat catcher.”

“I’ve caught rats before,” she confessed.

“Have you? Great! I always thought you must have had another vocation in life.”

“But I hate caterpillars, don’t you?” she declared naÏvely.

“By all means,” he agreed. “They give one the fuzzy-wuzzies, don’t they?”

They both laughed. He drew his chair closer to the couch and watched her frankly. She watched him with equal candor. There was honest admiration in his next remark: “You’re strong, aren’t you, Erna?”

“Yes.”

“How’d you get that way?” he pursued.

“I must ’a’ been born that way. I guess my father an’ mother were strong an’ healthy. Any way, I exercise a great deal—”

“In the store, you mean?”

“No, at night, by the open window, in—”

“Not in the nude?” he ventured. “Not quite, but almost!” she admitted, and they laughed again.

“But Erna, what made you say you guess your father and mother were strong? Don’t you know whether they were? Aren’t they alive?”

She looked at him suddenly, but his straightforward glance reassured her. She announced quietly: “I never saw my parents.”

“What?” he broke out. “Then how—but I beg your pardon, child. I didn’t mean to be inquisitive.”

“You’re not inquisitive,” she returned with unaccustomed seriousness. “Only—”

“I understand,” he interrupted. “Don’t speak of it! It’s too painful. Besides, we mustn’t be growing gloomy.”

Erna was meditative. She had never confided that part of her life to any one. It might be nice to unburden some of it. And Mr. Nielsen—he was so—She glanced at him.

“Please don’t!” he requested. “I’d much rather you wouldn’t.”

She smiled and said: “It isn’t so sad; it’s just kind o’ funny.”

“Well, if it’s funny, out with it, but if it isn’t—”

“It’s kind o’ funny that I should be tellin’ at all.”

“To me, you mean?”

“Yes!” “That’s easy. You trust me; that’s the reason,” he explained jocularly.

“Do I? How do you know?”

“Oh, I’m a wise old know-it-all. Which is certainly a nice bunch of conceit, isn’t it?”

“No,” she denied good-humoredly.

Without pretense of any sort, and completely at her ease sitting there on the couch only a yard or two from him, she gave Nielsen a few points in her knowledge of past years. Briefly, she laid claim to having lived nearly all her life with adopted parents, from whom, thanks to their continued selfishness and maltreatment, she had run away about a year ago. These people had once informed her that her father had married some woman of position in Bohemia, where Erna was born, and that, having squandered her money, he had disappeared for good. Her mother had died in giving birth to her, and her adopted parents, related to him as cousins, had received her indirectly through some friends of her father’s, as well as money, through various mysterious channels, up to her sixth year. The remittances stopped suddenly, and she was left a beggar on their hands, a fact of which they were often careful to remind her. At the age of twelve or thirteen, Erna had hunted for and found a situation, and later others, and had been able to pay some sort of board through the intervening years. But her “parents,” who had five children of their own, despised her and maltreated her accordingly, as did the children, guided by the elders’ precepts. Only her strength of body and endowed pugnaciousness had saved her from greater maltreatment.

“And this you call a funny story?” demanded Nielsen, stopping her.

“There’s nothing so very sad in it,” she declared stubbornly.

“There isn’t?”

“No.”

His admiration for her developed. Erna certainly possessed sterling qualities.

“But I haven’t finished,” she interposed.

“Never mind, Erna. I’ve heard enough.”

“You haven’t heard why I quit my ‘parents’.”

“I don’t have to,” he tried to stop her.

“There’s only a little to it.”

“Well?”

“They tried to sell me.”

“What?”

“Just what I said.”

“What do you mean?”

“They tried to sell me to an old admirer o’ mine in Paterson.”

“You must be crazy, child.” “No more’n you,” she insisted. “The man was all ready with his money an’—”

“But this is impossible,” he interrupted.

“No, it isn’t. I ought to know. It made me jump the track.”

“That’s how you ran away?”

“Yes.”

“A year ago?”

“Yes. It was the last straw. They’d tried the same game twice before. I was through.”

Nielsen eyed her in sympathy. He had not credited the whole of her story, incoherent and almost imaginary as some of its details sounded, but the climax had moved him deeply. He was not as superficial as his outward demeanor might indicate. But he was still a diplomat, and knowing Erna’s nature better than ever now, did not offer her open sympathy. Instead, he questioned: “So you wandered around New York looking for jobs?”

“Yes.”

“Till you landed at Landsmann’s?”

“Oh no, I had two other jobs before that.”

“Where?”

“At other bakeries, but I was fired.”

“For—for sassing back?” he asked, smiling.

“Yes, just as I sass old Landsmann.” He grew serious. “Hadn’t you better be careful?”

“How?”

“About angering Landsmann?”

“I can’t help it. I hate him. I hate Germans. My ‘parents’ were German an’—”

“He may fire you too.”

“I don’t care.”

“But you don’t want to be forced to run about New York again, do you?”

Erna was about to break out, thinking of Jimmy, “I won’t have to,” but substituted staring at Nielsen. He was so fine, so human, so—

“Never mind, Erna! Let’s talk of something more cheerful.” Suddenly, it was his turn to look thoughtful. Before he was aware of himself, he commenced: “Erna!”

“Yes?”

“If you ever need anybody—”

“Yes?”

“I mean in case you should ever lose your job—”

“Yes?”

“Don’t hesitate to come to me for help.”

He had spoken in a more earnest tone than was his custom. Erna looked quantities of gratitude. “Do you mean—”

“Yes,” he forestalled her. “I’m a man, Erna, or a part o’ one. I know you’re a good sport, I’ve seen so much evidence of it. In fact, you’re as good and probably a better sport than I am”—all this with a return to banter—“so it’s up to me, if you ever need assistance.”

Erna was unable to reply.

“Will you?” he requested more quietly.

“Yes,” she agreed, and was silent.

Presently, he came back to the whimsical. “We’re a funeral party, aren’t we?”

“No.”

“Well, we can start a partnership as funeral directors to bury the past, can’t we?”

“Sure!”

Nielsen laughed, and she followed his example.

“Erna, I envy you,” he started again.

“Why?”

“Nothing downs you long. You’re such a happy Indian that you’re able to run your world.”

“Am I?”

“Yes. It takes happy people to run the world, you know.”

“Does it?”

“Certainly. That’s my humble belief anyhow. Dost believe in philosophy?”

“No time for it!” she returned.

“You’re right,” he applauded. “It’s only a pastime for lemon natures. Stick to your joy, Erna!”

Erna was indulging in more abstract matters than she had ever attempted, for she said: “I can’t help it, I suppose. I love joy and happy people. An’ fresh air, strength, freedom.” But it was Nielsen’s fault, he used such a subtle method of probing her.

“That’ll do, Erna,” he interrupted. “You have spoken. There is nothing to be added to fresh air, the breeder of strength, the breeder of freedom. This ought to be enough philosophy for one day, eh? We’ll have headaches soon, won’t we?”

“Not me!” she denied, and he laughed and added: “Then I’ll close the sermon with a little text, if I may.”

“Go ahead.”

“Whatever happens,” he bantered her; “stick to your freedom with your last dying breath!”

“Thanks!”

The evening developed even further intimacy. And Erna soon came to realize that she had discovered her new sensation. As for Nielsen, he was spending an unusual evening too. Several times, he thought of Jimmy Allen and his connection with Erna. He was a splendid joyous animal like her. It did not surprise him that he had been restored to her favor, they were so well mated. And he recalled the short but significant scene he had spoiled that morning.

Erna, surely, was a rare nature,—hard, perhaps, selfish and cruel in many ways too, quite a little more so than others, but her strength of will, self reliance and her stubborn pursuit of pleasure and excitement—her life of joy—were irresistible. And she was only a waitress. But she was far more than that, an individual, as Carstairs had vaunted that time; she had lived a life harder to endure than that loaded upon his educated acquaintances, for example, and yet, she, lacking their knowledge and so called experience and wisdom, controlled life; life did not control her. And Nielsen, who seldom overlooked dissecting himself along with others, admitted readily that Erna attracted him powerfully, and not in the name of the story, which he had forgotten—for the present, anyhow.

Erna’s mind was making more rapid calculations than ever before. “Stick to your freedom!” he had advised her. It was true. She must go on fighting for that. But what of Jimmy—and marriage? Marriage, that word with a bad taste, marriage even with Jimmy would steal a good portion of her freedom. She must be careful. Besides, her power over Jimmy was so easy just the same. And Nielsen, that puzzling human man, disconcerted her. He was different from Jimmy. He was strong physically too, if not quite as handsome, and he possessed a strong heart and mind, which Jimmy did not. But his constant joking—was he really serious? She never knew just where to find him, he eluded her so. If she were to marry, she would never see him again, a prospect her greediness did not like to consider, as she sat there slyly watching him, clothed in that easy, cheerful, even-tempered strength of his.

Erna and Nielsen did not leave the latter’s workshop until close upon midnight. The rest of the time had passed swiftly and pleasantly. Their parting was warm to a decided degree. And they made an appointment for the following Friday evening.

“I’ll be a night owl soon,” she complained.

“Oh no—you’ll always be a Rat-wife,” he corrected.

She pressed the book under her arm—Ibsen’s “Little Eyolf,” which he had lent her—and laughed.

“Now, don’t forget my text,” he warned her gently, as they stood on the dark street corner near Landsmann’s, their hands clasped in friendly embrace.

“I won’t.”

“And if there’s any real trouble with Landsmann?” “Yes, I will,” she agreed.

He pressed her hand.

“Good-night,” she said.

“Good-night,” he returned.

And they separated. But they both looked back twice and waved their hands—in the old fashioned way.