She supposed that her father had gone to see if a veterinary surgeon, the “horse-doctor,” would come, and with such opportunity she hesitated about leaving the book. But no, her mother would be angry if she did not start the washing, late as it was. She ran down the stairs and out into the shed for the tubs, unfortunately colliding slightly with Jacob Klein when she opened the shed door quickly and stepped out.
Out of sorts about the horse and irritated by the sight of Greta and her little bump against him, he roared out loudly in German, asking her what she was doing and why she wasn’t doing her work, enforcing his words with a blow that sent her stumbling to the other side of the shed, where she hit her head against the metal tub hanging there and fell unconscious. The man hesitated, with all his brutality, this was the first time that Greta had not been able to dodge a blow. He recalled his wife’s threat, a potent one, but the girl would be up in a minute. What was he going to do about that horse?
When Greta regained consciousness, she was lying on the old cot in the front room and some one was leaning over her. It was the horse-doctor! “There; she’s coming around all right, Mrs. Klein. Tell her to keep her head tied up if she doesn’t want a scar, and give her some more of that medicine. I’m glad Jake told me about her before I started with nothing but medicine for his horse. To tell the truth, Mrs. Klein, I thought he was more anxious about the nag than about the girl. He said that his oldest girl ran into a tub and cut her head and fell down in a faint. How did it happen?”
“I didn’t see it. She slipped and fell, Jake said. He was in the house. I was watching the horse.” This was all that Mrs. Klein would tell, in her broken English, and Greta had no desire to tell more, though she asked, “Will I have to wash to-day?”
“I should say not,” said the old doctor. “Get her to bed.” With this, the doctor picked up a German paper that had come, as one did every week to Jacob Klein, and prepared to remain until that child was put to bed. Such unfeeling parents he never saw.
Greta, meanwhile, thought of the book. She did not want her mother in the attic. She sat on the edge of the cot, dizzy and sick. But she had often worked when she felt as much so. “I can get upstairs alone,” she said, “I feel better now.” And upstairs she went, though slowly, taking the bottle of medicine and a spoon, with a glass of water which her mother handed her. To think of it! It was almost worth the blow to be alone in her attic. She would feel better after a while, and read!
That night there was an unusually loud quarrel in the room below Greta’s attic. “What did I tell you? You leave Greta alone unless you want to go to jail. I will tell what I know!” This was the substance of the German words that Greta Klein heard. What had her father done? Her mother must care a little for her or she would not want her husband to leave her alone. No, it was just that Greta could work! So the woman went on to say. While he was drinking himself to death whenever he could get anything to drink, Greta could do the work and earn the money by washing and ironing. Jacob was to let Greta alone. She would manage her. “She isn’t your child,—you are not her father!” Greta heard, and sat up in bed to listen.
But after that the voices were lowered, and Greta heard the door of their bedroom closed tightly. Her own door was ajar. That she rose to close and latch as the old-fashioned fastening would permit.
If what Mrs. Klein said was true, it explained a good deal. Probably her mother had been married before. And possibly, possibly, she was only a step-daughter to Mrs. Klein herself. Greta felt ashamed that she would be glad if that were true. And oh, how good it was,—not Jacob Klein’s daughter! Then her name would not be Klein, even. Would she dare ask her mother about it? Mrs. Klein was quite capable of telling her that she had misunderstood what was said. Where had Greta gotten these different ideas of what was square and right to do? All at once she knew that she was different. But her head ached so. She had not been able to read the story. She could think better to-morrow.