"And what is to become of us?" she moans. "Things only get worse and worse!"
"Worse? No, Sarah! It is a sin to speak so. We are better off than we were this time last year. I had no food to give you, and no shelter. The children were all day rolling in the gutter, and they slept in the dirty courts. Now, at least, they sleep on straw, they have a roof over their head."
Sarah's sobs grow louder.
She has been reminded of the child that was taken from her out there in the streets. It caught cold, grew hoarse, and died—and died, as it might have died in the forest, without help of any kind—no tearing open the Ark[117]—no measuring of graves—nothing said over it to exorcise the evil eye—it went out like a candle.
He tries to comfort her:
"Don't cry, Sarah; don't cry so! Do not sin against God!"
"Oh, Mendele, if only He would help us!"
"Sarah, for your own sake don't take things so to heart. See what a figure you have made of yourself. Do you know, it is ten years to-day since we were married? Well, well, who would think you were the beauty of the town!"
"And you, Mendele; do you remember, you were called Mendele the strong—and now you are bent double, you are ill—and you don't tell me! O, my God, my God!"
The cry escapes her, the children are startled out of their sleep, and begin to wail anew: "Bread! Hungry!"