And she asked herself: Her child, her Yitzchokel, who had sucked her milk, what had Necheh to do with him? And she had poured out her bitterness of heart upon Yente's head for this also, that her son had cost her parents nothing, and was yet a better scholar than Necheh's children, and once more she exclaimed:
"Lord of the World! Avenge my quarrel, pay her out for it, let her not live to see another day!"
Passers-by, seeing a woman walking and scolding aloud, laughed.
Night came on, the little town was darkened.
Taube reached home with her armful of baskets, dragged herself up the steps, and opened the door.
"Mame, it's Ma-a-me!" came voices from within.
The house was full of smoke, the children clustered round her in the middle of the room, and never ceased calling out Mame! One child's voice was tearful: "Where have you been all day?" another's more cheerful: "How nice it is to have you back!" and all the voices mingled together into one.
"Be quiet! You don't give me time to draw my breath!" cried the mother, laying down the baskets.
She went to the fireplace, looked about for something, and presently the house was illumined by a smoky lamp.
The feeble shimmer lighted only the part round the hearth, where Taube was kindling two pieces of stick—an old dusty sewing-machine beside a bed, sign of a departed tailor, and a single bed opposite the lamp, strewn with straw, on which lay various fruits, the odor of which filled the room. The rest of the apartment with the remaining beds lay in shadow.