"Directly, directly, I shall find it directly—no, I don't seem to have anything for you—"
That is how they answered the grown people who came to them; but our two little brothers stood and looked at Lezer the carrier—a man in a wadded caftan, summer and winter—with thirsty eyes and aching hearts; stood and waited, hoping he would notice them and say something, if only one word. But Lezer was always busy: now he had gone into the yard to feed the horse, now he had run into the inn, and entered into a conversation with the clerk of a great store, who had brought a list of goods wanted from a shop in Dalissovke.
And the brothers used to stand and stand, till the elder one, Berele, lost patience. Biting his lips, and all but crying with vexation, he would just articulate: "Reb Lezer, is there a letter from father?"
But Reb Lezer would either suddenly cease to exist, run out into the street with somebody or other, or be absorbed in a conversation, and Berele hardly expected the answer which Reb Lezer would give over his shoulder:
"There isn't one—there isn't one."
"There isn't one!" Berele would say with a deep sigh, and sadly call to Yainkele to come away. Mournfully, and with a broken spirit, they went to where the day's meal awaited them.
"I am sure he loses the letters!" Yainkele would say a few minutes later, as they walked along.
"He is a bad man!" Berele would mutter with vexation.
But one day Lezer handed them a letter and a small parcel.
The letter ran thus: