Letitia’s face was a psychological study. Amazement，consternation， humiliation—all seemed determined to possessher. Here was the obtuse Swede， for whose dear sake she haddallied with the intricacies of the language of Stockholm，furiously familiar with admirable English！ The dense， dumbScandinavian—the lady of the “me no understand” rejoinder—apparently had the “gift of tongues.” Letitia trembled. Rarelyhave I seen her so thoroughly perturbed. Yet seemingly shewas unwilling to credit the testimony of her own ears， for withsudden energy， she confronted Miss Lyberg， and exclaimedimperiously， in Swedish that was either pure or impure： “Tig.
Ga din v？g！”
“Ah， come off！” cried the handmaiden insolently. “I understandEnglish. I haven’t been in this country fifteen years for nothing.
It’s just on account of folks like you that poor hard-workinggirls， who ain’t allowed to take no baths or entertain no ladyfriends， have to protect themselves. Pretend not to understandthem， says I. I’ve found it worked before this. If they think youdon’t understand ‘em， they’ll let you alone and stop worriting.
It’s like your impidence to turn my lady-friends out of this flat.
It’s like your impidence. I’ll—”
Letitia’s crestfallen look， following upon her perturbation，completely upset me. A wave of indignation swamped me. Iadvanced， and in another minute Miss Gerda Lyberg wouldhave found herself in the hall， impelled there by a persuasivehand upon her shoulder. However， it was not to be.
“You just lay a hand on me，” she said with cold deliberation，and a smile， “and I’ll have you arrested for assault. Oh， I knowthe law. I haven’t been in this country fifteen years for nothing.
The law looks after poor weak， Swedish girls. Just push me out.
It’s all I ask. Just you push me out.”
She edged up to me defiantly. My blood boiled. I wouldhave mortgaged the prospects of my Lives of Great Men（not that they were worth mortgaging） for the exquisitesatisfaction of confounding this abominable woman. Then Isaw the peril of the situation. I thought of horrid headlinersin the papers： “Author charged with abusing servant girl，”
or， “Arrest of Archibald Fairfax on serious charge，” and mymood changed.
“I understood you all the time，” continued Miss Lyberginsultingly. “I listened to you. I knew what you thought ofme. Now I’m telling you what I think of you. The idea ofturning out my lady-friends， on a Thursday night， too！ And mea-slaving for them， and a-bathing for them， and a-treating themto ice cream and cake， and in me own kitchen. You ain’t nolady. As for you “—I seemed to be her particular pet—” whenI sees a man around the house all the time， a-molly-coddlingand a-fussing， I says to myself， he ain’t much good if he can’ttrust the women folk alone.”
We stood there like dummies， listening to the tirade. Whatcould we do？ To be sure， there were two of us， and we were inour own house. The antagonist， however， was a servant， not inher own house. The situation， for reasons that it is impossibleto define， was hers. She knew it， too. We allowed her fullsway， because we couldn’t help it. The sympathy of the public，in case of violent measures， would not have been on our side.
The poor domestic， oppressed and enslaved， would haveappealed to any jury of married men， living luxuriously incheap boarding-houses！
When she left us， as she did when she was completely readyto do so， Letitia began to cry. The sight of her tears unnervedme， and I checked a most unfeeling remark that I intended tomake to the effect that， “if the wind be favorable， we shall beat Gothenburg in forty hours.”
“It’s not that I mind her insolence，” she sobbed， “wewere going to send her off anyway， weren’t we？ But it’s sohumiliating to be ‘done.’ We’ve been ‘done.’ Here have Ibeen working hard at Swedish—writing exercises， learningverbs， studying proverbs—just to talk to a woman who speaksEnglish as well as I do. It’s—it’s—so—so—mor—mortifying.”
“Never mind， dear，” I said， drying her eyes for her； “theSwedish will come in handy some day.”
“No，” she declared vehemently， “don’t say that You’lltake me to Sweden. I wouldn’t go to the hateful country. It’sa hideous language， anyway， isn’t it， Archie？ It is a nasty，laconic， ugly tongue. You heard me say Tig to her just now.
Tig means ‘be silent.’ Could anything sound more repulsive？
Tig！ Tig！ Ugh！”
Letitia stamped her foot. She was exceeding wroth.
