“I tell you I am not,” Clara said testily.
“Then why did you get red in the face when I said you were? People don’t get red without reason, do they?”
The young woman’s will power seemed to have completely deserted her. “I am engaged,” she said, “but I am not married, and—let me alone, mamma, will you?”
“If you are engaged, then why were you afraid to say so? Is it anything to be ashamed of to be engaged? Foolish girl that you are, am I a stranger to you? Why don’t you tell me who he is, what he is?”
“He is a nice man and that’s all I can tell you now, and pray don’t ask me any more questions, mamma darling.”
After a pause the old woman gave her daughter a sharp look and said in a whisper: “He must be a Christian, then. Else you wouldn’t be afraid to tell me who he is.”
“He is not,” Clara answered lamely, her eyes on a heap of yellow apples in the distance.
“He is a Christian, then,” Hannah said in consternation. “May the blackest ill-luck strike you both.”
“Don’t! Don’t!” Clara entreated her, clapping her hand over her mother’s mouth, childishly.
“What! You are going to marry a Christian? You are a convert-Jewess?” Hannah said in a ghastly whisper.