modern ideas.  "They make her hate me," he often muttered. But if he resented it he would offend them and Hilda too; if he acquiesced he encouraged them and added to Hilda's exasperation. 

 Mrs. Brauner knew at once that Hilda was in some way the cause of the break in the custom.  "Oh, you must come," she said. "We'd feel strange all week if we didn't see you on Sunday." 

 "Yes—I must have my cards," insisted Brauner. He and Otto always played pinochle; Otto's eyes most of the time and his thoughts all the time were on Hilda, in the corner, at the zither, playing the maddest, most romantic music; her father therefore usually won, poor at the game though he was. It made him cross to lose, and Otto sometimes defeated his own luck deliberately when love refused to do it for him. 

 "Very well, then—that is—if I can—I'll try to come." 

 Several customers pushed past him into his shop and he had to rejoin his partner, Schwartz, behind the counters. Brauner and his wife walked slowly home—it was late and there would be more business than Hilda and August could attend to. As they crossed Third Street Brauner said:  "Hilda must go and tell him to come. This is her doing." 

 "But she can't do that," objected Mrs. Brauner.  "She'd say it was throwing herself at his head." 

 "Not if I send her?" Brauner frowned with a seeming of severity.  "Not if I, her father, send her—for two chickens, as we're out?"  Then he laughed. His fierceness was the family joke when Hilda was small she used to say, "Now, get mad, father, and make little Hilda laugh!" 

 Hilda was behind the counter, a customer watching with fascinated eyes the graceful, swift movements of her arms and hands as she tied up a bundle. Her sleeves were rolled to her dimpled elbows, and her arms were round and strong and white, and her skin was fine and smooth. Her shoulders were wide, but not square; her hips were narrow, her wrists, her hands, her head, small. She looked healthy and vigorous and useful as well as beautiful. 

 When the customers had gone Brauner said:  "Go up to Schwartz and Heilig, daughter, and ask them for two two-pound chickens. And tell Otto Heilig you'll be glad to see him to-morrow." 

 "But we don't need the chickens, now. We—"  Hilda's brow contracted and her chin came out. 

 "Do as I tell you," said her father. 

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