The cot on which Mrs. Ravinsky sat creaked under her swaying body.
“You see, we have only a small amount of money,” went on the unconscious inquisitor, “and it is but fair it should go to the most deserving cases.”
Entering a few preliminary notes, Miss Naughton looked up inquiringly. “Where is Mr. Ravinsky?”
“In the synagogue.”
“Has he no work?”
“He can’t do no work. His head is on the next world.”
Miss Naughton frowned. She was accustomed to this kind of excuse. “People who are not lazy can always find employment.”
Seeing Mrs. Ravinsky’s sudden pallor, she added kindly: “You have not eaten to-day. Is there no food in the house?”
Mrs. Ravinsky staggered blindly to her feet. “No—nothing—I didn’t yet eat nothing.”
The brooding grey of Rachel’s eyes darkened with shame as she clutched protectingly at her mother’s apron. The uncanny, old look of the solemn little face seemed to brush against Miss Naughton’s very heartstrings—to reproach the rich vigour of her own glowing youth.