With the words, tears welled from the old woman's dim, small eyes, and became merged with the folds and wrinkles on her grief-stained cheeks. And in the presence of that little head, a head shaking like a dead leaf in the autumn time, and of those kindly features so worn with age and sorrow, my eyes fell, and I felt smitten with shame to find that, on searching my soul for at least a word of consolation to offer to the poor fellow-mortal before me, I could discover none that seemed suitable.
But at length there recurred to my mind some strange words which I had encountered in I know not what antique volume—words which ran:
"Let not the servants of the Gods lament but, rather, rejoice, in that weeping and lamentation grieve both the Gods and mankind."
Thereafter, I muttered confusedly:
"It is time that I was going."
"What?" was her hasty exclamation, an exclamation uttered as though the words had affrighted her. Whereafter, with quivering lips, she began hesitantly and uncertainly to fumble in her bodice.
"No, I have no need of money," I interposed. "Only, if you should be so willing, give me a piece of bread."
"You have no need of money?" she re-echoed dubiously.
"No, none. For that matter, of what use could it be to me?"
"Well, well!" she said after a thoughtful pause. "Then be it as you wish, and—and I thank you."