"The child is well."
Miriam Goldstein, widow of the gravedigger at Barnow, who received from the community as her widow's portion the grant of a little room in the cottage near the gate of the cemetery, and who worked in other people's houses all day long, did not weep during any sleepless hours that might come to her at night, because—her child was well. I ask all mothers—had Miriam Goldstein any cause for tears?
The days came and went. Little Lea was now four years old. She played on the grave-mounds during the long, bright summer days, crept about under the branches of the elder bushes quietly and happily, and beneath the clothes which her mother had hung up in long lines above the graves to dry.
Soon autumn came with its long damp evenings. It became dark early, and when Miriam was detained till a late hour, Lea used to wait for her patiently in their little room. She knew that ere long she would hear her mother's step outside, and her voice calling her as she opened the door. She could then run into her arms, and a fire would soon be burning to cook a warm supper.
But once, on a raw, cold September night, it was not so. The washerwoman came home and called her child, but no answer came.
Trembling, she struck a light. The room was empty.
"Lea!" she cried again, loudly and sharply.
Still no answer. She let her hands fall helplessly at her sides. Recovering herself quickly, she rushed into the room of her neighbor, the gravedigger who had formerly been under her husband, and who had succeeded to his place.
"My child!" she cried; "where is my child?"
The man and his wife stared at her as if she were mad.