The soiled shred of linen that held the money hangs across a glass of water beside the soul-light.[20]
A small, tin trunk stands near the door; it belongs to the servant-girl, who has just gone out to look for another situation.
The dismantled room is now all but dark; a few scattered wisps of straw shimmer on the floor; a nail-head stares here and there out of the four walls.
On the wall used to hang a looking-glass (it is not wanted now. If the widow were to see her reflection, she would be terrified). A Chanukah lamp (for whom should it be lighted?) and clothes used to hang there, too. They came and took each his own before he died.
In one corner stands a cradle; in the cradle lies a child, asleep. On the floor beside the cradle sits the newly-made widow.
The thin hands hang helpless, the heavy head rests on the cradle; the eyes, which look as if they had wept themselves out, stare fixedly at the ceiling.
You might suppose she was dead, that she neither felt nor remembered any longer. Her heart scarcely beats, her strength has left her.
And yet one thought is revolving ceaselessly in her brain; no other seems able to drive it away—it is not to be dislodged.
"Hannah," he had once said to her, "hand me the scissors."
He had no use for them just then, and he had given a little artful smile. What had he really wanted?