Then Shprintze was in a way! He could hear, after a while, how she was carrying on.
They told her it was nothing—only the charcoal.
No! she must have a doctor. She threatened to faint, to throw herself into the water, and went on screaming:
"My husband! My treasure!"
He pulled himself together, sat up, and asked quietly:
"Shprintze, do you want a divorce?"
"May you be—" she never finished the curse, and burst into tears. "Shemaiah, do you think God will punish me for my cursing and my bad temper?"
But no sooner was he well again, there was the old Shprintze back. A mouth on wheels, a tongue on screws, and strong as iron—she scratched like a cat—ha, ha! A pity she died; and she did not even live to have pleasure in her children.
"They must be doing well in the world—all artisans—a trade won't let a man die of hunger. All healthy—they took after me. They don't write, but what of that? They can't do it themselves, and just you go and ask someone to do it for you! Besides, what's the good of a letter of that kind? It's like watered soup. And then young boys, in a long time they forget. They must be doing well.
"But Shprintze is dead and buried. Poor Shprintze!