"No, I haven't got it. You'd better go back to your shop, else you'll suffer from worse thieves."
It was true. Widow Finkelstein smote her wig in horror and hurried back to purvey treacle.
But that night when she shut up the shutters, she hurried off to Shosshi's address, which she had learned in the interim. His little brother opened the door and said Shosshi was in the shed.
He was just nailing the thicker of those rockers on to the body of a cradle. His soul was full of bitter-sweet memories. Widow Finkelstein suddenly appeared in the moonlight. For a moment Shosshi's heart beat wildly. He thought the buxom figure was Becky's.
"I have come for my sixpence."
Ah! The words awoke him from his dream. It was only the Widow
Finkelstein.
And yet—! Verily, the widow, too, was plump and agreeable; if only her errand had been pleasant, Shosshi felt she might have brightened his back yard. He had been moved to his depths latterly and a new tenderness and a new boldness towards women shone in his eyes.
He rose and put his head on one side and smiled amiably and said, "Be not so foolish. I did not take a copper. I am a poor young man. You have plenty of money in your stocking."
"How know you that?" said the widow, stretching forward her right foot meditatively and gazing at the strip of stocking revealed.
"Never mind!" said Shosshi, shaking his head sapiently.