The anger died out of Irma's brown eyes and flushed face. A soft and tender and mysterious light suffused her countenance.
"No, I am not a lady," she said, "but you remember what father said. Our mother was a lady, and I am going to be one."
Almost never had the children spoken of their mother. The subject was at once too sacred and too terrible for common speech. Kalman laid down his spoon.
"I remember," he said after a few moments' silence. A shadow lay upon his face. "She was a lady, and she died in the snow." His voice sank to a whisper. "Wasn't it awful, Irma?"
"Yes, Kalman dear," said his sister, sitting down beside him and putting her arms about his neck, "but she had no pain, and she was not afraid."
"No," said the boy with a ring in his voice, "she was not afraid; nor was father afraid either." He rose from his meal.
"Why, Kalman," exclaimed his sister, "you are not half done your feast. There are such lots of nice things yet."
"I can't eat, Irma, when I think of that—of that man. I choke here," pointing to his throat.
"Well, well, we won't think of him to-night. Some day very soon, we shall be free from him. Sit down and eat."
But the boy remained standing, his face overcast with a fierce frown.