Well, Karsten, now I must make a confession I am really ashamed of.
Bernick.
You haven’t told her the whole story?
Johan.
Yes, I have. It was wrong of me, but I couldn’t help it. You have no conception what Lona has been to me. You could never endure her; but to me she has been a mother. The first few years over there, when we were desperately poor—oh, how she worked! And when I had a long illness, and could earn nothing, and couldn’t keep her from doing it, she took to singing songs in the cafés; gave lectures that people laughed at; wrote a book she has both laughed and cried over since—and all to keep my soul and body together. Last winter, when I saw her pining for home, and thought how she had toiled and slaved for me, could I sit still and look on? No, Karsten, I couldn’t. I said, “Go, go, Lona; don’t be anxious on my account. I’m not such a ne’er-do-well as you think.” And then—then I told her everything.
Bernick.
And how did she take it?
Johan.
Oh, she said what was quite true—that as I was innocent I could have no objection to taking a trip over here myself. But you needn’t be afraid; Lona will say nothing, and I shall take better care of my own tongue another time.
Bernick.