'And why not?' asked Yossel. 'Is there a greater lover of God in all Galicia?'
'Hush, Yossel, I am a great sinner.' But her old face was radiant. She turned to her grandson. 'Don't be angry with Yossel—all the fault is mine. He did not ask me to go with him to Palestine; it was I that asked him.'
'Do you mean that you asked him to marry you?'
'It is the same thing. There is no other way. How different would it have been had there been any other woman here who wanted to die in Palestine! But the women nowadays have no fear of Heaven; they wear their hair unshorn—they——'
'Yes, yes. So you asked Yossel to marry you.'
'Asked? Prayed, as one prays upon Atonement Day. For two years I prayed to him, but he always refused.'
'Then why——?' began the artist.
'Yossel is so proud. It is his only sin.'
'Oh, Yenta!' protested Yossel flushing, 'I am a very sinful man.'
'Yes, but your sin is all in a lump,' the Bube replied. 'Your iniquity is like your ugliness—some people have it scattered all over, but you have it all heaped up. And the heap is called pride.'