Luiza burst into a fit of hysterical weeping.
“There it is! Now you begin to cry! What is the matter? Why do you cry?”
She continued weeping, without answering.
“But, child, what is the meaning of these tears?” he asked, in tones of mingled tenderness and impatience, approaching her.
“Why do you speak to me in that way?” she said, with a fresh sob, wiping her eyes. “You know I am ill and nervous, and you treat me as you do. You have only disagreeable things to say to me.”
“Disagreeable things! But, child, I have said nothing disagreeable to you,” he answered, embracing her, much moved.
But Luiza drew herself away from him, and in a broken voice said,—
“Is it a crime to iron? You are angry because I work, and attend to the affairs of the house. Would you prefer me to neglect things? This woman is sick, and if I do not help her, the work is left undone. And you are always saying disagreeable things to me.”
“Don’t talk nonsense. Come, reflect a moment and you will see it is only that I don’t want you to fatigue yourself.”
“Why do you tell me, then, that I am afraid of her?” she said, her tears beginning to flow afresh. “Afraid! And of what? What an absurdity!”