"Golda, are you afraid of those girls?"
Golda gravely shook her head in negation.
"I have grown up together with fear," she answered. "It's my brother, and I am accustomed to it. But when I return home the old zeide asks: 'Have you met anybody? Have they annoyed you?' I can't lie, and if I tell the truth the old zeide is very sad and he weeps."
"Did zeide alone bring you up?"
She nodded her head affirmatively.
"My parents died when I was as small as that bush. Zeide didn't have any children, so he took me to his home and took care of me, and when I was ill he carried me in his arms and kissed me. When I was older he taught me to spin and read the Bible, and told me beautiful stories which the Karaims brought from the far world. Zeide is good; zeide is a dear old man—but so old—so old, and so poor. His hair is snow-white from great age and his eyes are red as corals from weeping. When he is making baskets I often lie at his feet and keep my head in his lap, and he caresses my hair with his old, trembling hand, and repeats: 'Josseyme! Josseyme!' (orphan)."
While thus speaking she sat a little bent over, with her elbow resting on her knee. She balanced herself softly, looking into space.
Meir was now gazing in her face as on a rainbow, and when she pronounced the last word, he repeated after her in a soft voice, filled with pity:
"Josseyme!"
At that moment, quite a distance behind them in the grove, was heard the bleating of the goat. Meir looked back.