duced to my circumstances! would that your children were in want like mine, and that their mother would have to feel what I do, great God! would that you would have to go through what I have, if only for a week!"
"Get out, you witch, you came to curse, abuse—Ivan! put her out immediately, that witch!"
All who were sitting in the large parlor came to the scene and looked on with astonishment.
Sarah ran out, Ivan after her.
The servant, closing the door after her, stopped short and said, "The villain displayed his meanness again, the scoundrel!"
Hurrying down the stairs and almost losing her breath, Sarah started to run homeward.
“What’s the matter, what has happened?” asked the corpulent Mad. Berkin.
"Nothing," replied Herr Berkin, in a surly tone.
His voice was enough to silence them all, for they feared his anger.
Leon Borisowitch paced the room from one end to the other for a while. The incident with its noise and disturbance he very much disliked.
"Why did I order her put out, and make such a fuss about it? She abused me, well, what of that —a poor insignifi-
Sarah reached home stupefied, brokenhearted. Now she had lost all her hopes. No more "Berkin," it's all over. The fifteen roubles which Shmerel promised to allow her she did not receive. His first impulse of pity had subsided. The practical thought that "one's shirt is nearer to his own body" prevailed. Shmuel could not raise the money promised, but he took the eldest grandson. The vital question, "what is to be done?" troubled Sarah constantly, but she could find no reply. She was hesitating as to whether it would be better for her "to commit suicide" or "to live on charity" with her children and have death stare her in the face daily.
Another week passed during which time Rivkeh found her a position as wetnurse.
A few days later Sarah vacated her little dingy room, and broke up housekeeping. She had a home, a husband, a family—now it all went to naught and she must become a servant, eat from a stranger's table and live in a stranger's home.
END OF PART I.
My Disposition.
HAVE a singing heart Keeps me blythe and gay, However many thorns, Life strews upon my way.
Just when my cares press on To conjure up some tears, I turn the woes to song, And again my joy appears.