"No," answered the stranger, "we have been travelling for weeks. But I have done the best I could for him, and compassionate people are to be found everywhere."
"For weeks!" exclaimed the woman. "In winter! Then you have come from the neighborhood of Cracow, perhaps!"
"Still farther away."
"Still farther? Then from Aschkanas or Prague? There is a large congregation there. But, from your accent, I should have judged you belonged to this neighborhood. Will you spend the night with me?"
The stranger declined. "I must go on into the town."
"Because you fancy the inns there will be better," said the woman, somewhat hurt. However, she resumed, in a pitying tone, "How you are trembling! Have you a fever? Just wait; I'll bring you some soup, and if you are poor you need not trouble about the pay." And before an answer could be given she was away into the kitchen.
But the stranger was not to be left alone long. First came the coachman. "Rest yourself, madam. I have plenty of time."
Then a bearded man poked his head into the room. "God's welcome! I am the landlord. The soup will be here directly." Finally an old woman entered, at the sight of whom the stranger started, pulling her head-cloth still closer over her face. But the poor little woman with her shrivelled-up face, with its prominent hooked nose, did not bother her. She only said "Good-morning," and then sat down at the other end of the table and gazed into vacancy with her bleared eyes.
The landlady came, bearing a steaming bowl. "Welcome, Aunt Miriam," she said to the old woman. "It is nice of you to come here instead of sitting over there alone in your little room."
She placed the bowl before the stranger. "Help yourself. I have put some chicken in it; not much, but as much as I could." She then turned again to the old body. "It is not right, Aunt Miriam, for you to weep so much."