And now the heat grew greater, and the sweatshops, with all their people, were as silent as the grave. The men cut the cloth and ironed it, and the women stitched, stitched, stitched, with never a sound, and there was no weeping, for their misery was beyond the healing power of tears.
Shatzkin’s wife fell to the floor exhausted, and they carried her to her room above, and sent for a doctor.
“The sea air would do her good,” said the doctor.
“The sea air,” repeated Shatzkin, stupidly. “The sea air.”
“Keep her as cool as you can. I will call again in the morning.”
“The sea air,” was all that Shatzkin said. “The sea air.”
In the middle of the night the woman cried, “Shatzkin! Shatzkin!”
He looked down, for her head lay upon his lap.
“Shatzkin!” She was smiling feebly. “The baby—Aaron—Esther—dear Shatzkin——”