"Morejne!" he exclaimed, "why did you give him that hala? He is a stupid, nasty child. He don't want to study, and brings shame upon me. The melamed—may he live a hundred years—takes a great deal of trouble to teach him; but he has a head which does not understand anything. The melamed beats him, and I beat him, too, in order that the learning shall enter his head, but it does not help at all. He is an alejdyc gejer (lazy)—a donkey!"
Meir looked at the boy, who was still devouring the bread.
"Schmul," said he, "he is neither lazy nor a donkey, but he is sick."
Schmul waved his hand contemptuously.
"He is sick," shouted he. "He began to be sick when he was told to study. Before that he was healthy, gay, and intelligent. Ah, what an intelligent and pretty child he was! Could I expect such a misfortune? What is he now?"
Meir continued to smooth the dishevelled hair of the pale child with his hand. The tall, thin Schmul bent again and kissed his hand.
"Morejne," said he, "you are very good if you pity such a stupid child."
"Schmul, why do you call me Morejne?" asked Meir.
Schmul interrupted him hastily.
"The fathers of your father were Morejnes; your zeide and your uncles are Morejnes, and you, Meir, you will soon be Morejne also."