“Dot’s de mudder’s eyes looking at me, Dora—de eyes of your mudder, vot is now dead—there,” he added, with a sob, “run along mit Loney and play pinochle.”
Dora and Loney ran out of the shop, smiling back at the shoemaker, who turned to the now weeping woman, saying:
“They have gone now.”
“What I have to say will not take long. I was a wife—an honest wife. My husband deserted me for another woman, robbed me of my child and left me to die alone. He had taught me to take an occasional drink, saying that my health required it. In my trouble I turned to it, and before I realized it—well—it has brought me to this.”
“Vell, don’t you t’ink it has brought you far enough? If you go much farder you vill fall ofer. Vy don’t you quit?”
“Look at me,” said Helen, showing her shaking hand. “See my hand shaking like an aspen. I am all but dead, and the craving for that awful stuff is eating out my vitals. Quit! Quit! Don’t you see it is too late, too late!”
“Vy are you talking—it is only half-past eight. Look, mein poor vomans. Read you dot sign of mein.”
Saying these last words, the poor shoemaker pointed to an illuminated card hung against the wall, and Helen slowly rose and looked at it, reading aloud:
“[It is never too late to mend.]”
“Dot’s right. It is nefer too late to mend an olt shoe, nor der human heart—neider von.”