A gleam of hope illumines her sunken features.
She rubs one foot against the other two or three times, rises stiffly, and goes to the door.
She opens it, and in comes a pale, stoop-shouldered Jew, with two empty cans.
"Well?" she whispers.
He puts away the cans, takes off his yoke, and answers, lower still:
"Nothing—nothing at all; nobody paid me. To-morrow! they said. Everyone always says to-morrow—the day after to-morrow—on the first day of the month!"
"The children have hardly had a bite all day," articulates Sarah. "Anyway, they're asleep—that is something. O, my poor children!"
She can control herself no longer, and begins to cry quietly.
"What are you crying for?" asks the man.
"O, Mendele, the children are so hungry." She is making desperate efforts to gulp down her tears.