The next evening she found Rudolph waiting for her outside the mill gate. Together they started up what had been, when Herman bought the cottage, a green hill with a winding path. But the smoke and ore from the mill had long ago turned it to bareness, had killed the trees and shrubbery, and filled the little hollows where once the first arbutus had hidden with cinders and ore dust. The path had become a crooked street, lined with wooden houses, and paved with worn and broken bricks.
Where once Herman Klein had carried his pail and whistled bits of Shubert as he climbed along, a long line of blackened men made their evening way. Untidy children sat on the curb, dogs lay in the center of the road, and women in all stages of dishabille hung over the high railings of their porches and watched for their men.
Under protest of giving her a lift up the hill, Rudolph slipped his hand through Anna's left arm.
Immediately she knew that the movement was a pretext. She could not free herself.
“Be good, now,” he cautioned her. “I've got you. I want to see that watch.”
“You let me alone.”
“I'm going to see that watch.”
With his free hand he felt under her sleeve and drew down the bracelet.
“So the mill gave it to you, eh? That's a lie, and you know it.”
“I'll tell you, Rudolph,” she temporized. “Only don't tell father. All the girls have watches, and I wanted one. So I bought it.”