Miriam heard of it, and wept bitterly. But she had little time for weeping. She had to work hard to keep herself and her child from starvation.
So the years passed, until the sad autumn of 1863 came. The Poles had risen against the great Eastern nation, and a whispered rumor went through the land, that pestilence, the terrible sister of war, was again aroused.
Therefore the gravedigger did not believe that little Lea, "the child of atonement," would live.
The funeral of old Moses Freudenthal was over. He was a very old man, and few mourners followed him to the grave. After the service was over, these went away immediately, and the old rabbi, also, did not linger. The widow had humbly waited for this moment to step forward and ask the rabbi to come and see her child. She added no word of entreaty, but something in the tone of her voice, and in the expression of her eyes, involuntarily touched the heart of the old man. This woman embarrassed him—for was she not displeasing to God? Was not the destiny of the child well known—this "child of atonement"?...
But he went to the little house, and entered the room where the sick child lay. He bent over the bed, and looked at her in silence for a length of time. His expression was stern and harsh when he raised his head.
With intense anxiety the mother waited for him to speak, but the old man turned to go without uttering a word.
"Will you not bless the child?" asked the widow.
"Woman," answered the rabbi, gloomily, "no blessing can save her; and besides, I can not do it: it would be interfering with the Almighty."
Miriam threw herself upon the bed, with a loud cry, clasping the unconscious child to her heart, as though she would save her from every one, even from God. "Why," she cried, "why, rabbi?"