“I found out that they are German Jews, ‘aus Berlin.’ They came here more than a year ago, just after their marriage. The man is a brass-finisher. He had a job when he first came, and worked for six months, I believe. Then the work shut down. Since then they have lived on little or nothing.
“They have really almost starved. I glanced at a roll lying on the table, and one of them told me that for weeks they have lived on bread. Their landlady is too poor to help them. They have both tried to get work of any kind, and have failed.
“‘They said we could make gran’ fortune in America,’ said Mrs. Ebstein. ‘Look! this is my fortune!’ and she took two pennies out of her apron-pocket and shook them. ‘We eat these! After that we starve!’
“She is a vivacious little thing. When she talked she was inimitable. Her eyes—she has bright brown eyes—twinkled, and she forgot that she was hungry. She was telling me about her experiences in trying to get work.”
“Give me their address,” I said, “and I will report them to the Good Samaritans.”
“No,” said the Doctor, quietly, “I want to take care of them myself. Will you help?”
“Certainly,” I answered. “They are very interesting. Only you should have found them in a garret. Something is lacking in your background. It isn’t artistic.”
“There was altogether too much background,” said the Doctor. “Nearly all the inhabitants of the tenement-house swarmed up while I was there, and all of the landlady’s children came as far into that tiny room as was possible. No, the lonely garret exists only in story-books. Its seclusion is too good to be true. The worst feature in the lives of the poor is that they have to be born and to die in public.
“Now that I think of it,” added the Doctor, rising and looking at her list of calls, “do you think that you could get a baby’s wardrobe together for Mrs. Ebstein?”