She rose, the quilt fell from her shoulders, and she stood forth in a faded calico wrapper. "Oh, Nels! You've come at last!" she said. Then she saw Tom, and drew back a step.
"Yah," said Petersen. He dragged Tom after him into the room and swept his left arm about. "See!—De union!"
The room was almost bare. The table, three wooden chairs, a few dishes, a cooking-stove without fire,—this was the furniture. Half the plastering was gone from the ceiling, the blue kalsomine was scaling leprously from the walls, in places the floor was worn almost through. In another room he saw a child asleep on a bed.
There was just one picture on the walls, a brown-framed photograph of a man in the dress and pose of a prize fighter—a big, tall, angular man, with a drooping mustache. Tom gave a quick glance at Petersen.
"See!—De union!" Petersen repeated fiercely.
The little woman came quickly forward and laid her hand on Petersen's arm. "Nels, Nels," she said gently.
"Yah, Anna. But he is de man vot drove me from ma yob."
"We must forgive them that despitefully use us, the Lord says."
Petersen quieted under her touch and dropped Tom's arm.
She turned her blue eyes upon Tom in gentle accusation. "How could you? Oh, how could you?"