Now one child and now another gives a start, a head is raised, and there is a plaintive chirp: "Hungry!"
"Patience, dears, patience!" says Sarah, soothingly.
"Father will be here presently, and bring you some supper. I will be sure to wake you."
"And something hot?" ask the children, whimpering. "We have had nothing hot to-day yet!"
"And something hot, too!"
But she does not believe what she is saying.
She glances round the room—perhaps, after all, there is something left that she can pawn. Nothing! Four bare, damp walls—split stove—everything clammy and cold—two or three broken dishes on the chimney-piece—on the stove, an old, battered Chanukah lamp—over-head, in the beam, a nail—sole relic of a lamp that hung from the ceiling; two empty beds without pillows—and nothing, nothing else!
The children are some time getting to sleep.
Sarah's heart aches as she looks at them.
Suddenly she turns her eyes, red with crying, to the door—she has heard footsteps, heavy footsteps, on the stairs leading down into the basement—a clatter of cans against the wall, now to the right, now to the left.