y 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 a