Reb Yainkel, Feigele's father, fell ill.
It was in the beginning of winter, and there was war between winter and summer: the former sent a snowfall, the latter a burst of sun. The snow turned to mud, and between times it poured with rain by the bucketful.
This sort of weather made the old man ill: he became weak in the legs, and took to his bed.
There was no money for food, and still less for firing, and Feigele had to lend for the time being.
The old man lay abed and coughed, his pale, shrivelled face reddened, the teeth showed between the drawn lips, and the blue veins stood out on his temples.
They sent for the doctor, who prescribed a remedy.
The mother wished to pawn their last pillow, but Feigele protested, and gave up part of her wages, and when this was not enough, she pawned her jacket—anything sooner than touch the dowry.
And he, Eleazar, came every evening, and they sat together beside the well-known table in the lamplight.
"Why are you so sad, Feigele?"
"How can you expect me to be cheerful, with father so ill?"