"Yes, Miss?" said Srul, with his smartest store manner.
"I want a wedding-veil of white lace," she said in Yiddish. At her voice Srul started. Biela could keep up the joke no longer. "Srul, my darling Srul!" she cried hysterically, her arms yearning to reach him across the counter.
He drew back, pale, gasping for breath.
"Ah, my dear ones!" blubbered Leah, rushing in. "God has been good to you, after all."
"But—but—how did you get in?" he cried, staring.
"Never mind how we got in," said Leah, every pock-mark glistening with smiles and tears. "And where is Tsirrélé—my dear little Tsirrélé?"
"She—she is out marketing, with the mother."
"And the mother?"
"She is well and happy."
"Thank God!" said Leah fervently, and beckoned the porter with the bundles.