Presently the door opened, and he, Yitzchokel, came in.
Yitzchokel was about fourteen, tall and thin, his pale face telling out sharply against his black cloak beneath his black cap.
"Good evening!" he said in a low tone.
The mother gave up her place to him, feeling that she owed him respect, without knowing exactly why, and it was borne in upon her that she and her poverty together were a misfortune for Yitzchokel.
He took a book out of the case, sat down, and opened it.
The mother gave the lamp a screw, wiped the globe with her apron, and pushed the lamp nearer to him.
"Will you have a glass of tea, Yitzchokel?" she asked softly, wishful to serve him.
"No, I have just had some."
"Or an apple?"
He was silent.