beggar counts his earnings by the light of a weak candle.
a weak candle. . . . Moreover, in the large mansion, Sorach the vintner's wife, lies sick abed . . . A young woman, an old man. Sorach a healthy man, his wife a chronic invalid always on the verge of dying . . . Sorach paces the floor deep in thought and tears trickle down his beard . . . When the matter was proposed to him, he was of half a mind not to marry Mirele. What good was there in marrying such a weak, pale thing? But they persuaded him to do it! He would have preferred that other girl across the way . . . And he paces the floor, perturbed, deep in meditation.
There is a light in the Dayin's house. He is still at his books. Perhaps he is composing a funeral oration, for Sorach is a rich Jew, and a pious Jew to boot, a learned man,—and the Dayin bends over his books and reads on . . .
Sleep comes not even to those who live in the huts where you see no lights flickering. The delapidated, gloomy house opposite the mansion does not screep, though no light issues through its cracks. Its walls are crumbling, as if rats had succeeded in gnawing away the greater part of them. The shutters hang awry and do not cover the windows. By the light of the pale moon one may see the withered head of an old woman, the glitter of whose eyes has been extinguished.
She raises her voice and calls to her who sleeps in the other room—“Taibe! Taibe! Do you hear?”
No reply comes. But the old woman is not deterred. She knows that Taibe is not asleep,—that she can not be sleeping.
"Taibe!" she calls louder.
"What do you want, mother?" comes in a stifled voice, faltering with tears. "You will wake the children." . . .
The old woman is quieted for a moment. In the silence she hears Taibe turning about in her bed and burying her face in the pillow.
All this the Log tells me when the market-place is deserted . . .
“Do you hear, Taibe?” the old woman calls again. “Your Mendel will leave you tomorrow. He has his talith in his bag. You will become a deserted wife, and—is it right?—he will not even leave you a divorce!” A stifled sob from the bed, and the old woman continues bitterly: “You see, you would not obey your father and mother. No! There was Sorach over the way. . . And you brought your father down to the grave in sorrow. God doesn't forget. He repays, does the Master of the World!
Taibe rises from the bed and rushes from the house.
"And the other one is dying," murmurs the old woman, as she buries her head in the dirty pillows. "If Mendel would only give her a divorce, who knows, perhaps . . . Sorach . . ."
Taibe rushes to the Log, covering her bare feet with her shawl, and shudders in the moonlight. Her feverish eyes gleam and her pale face look ghastly. Her eyes turn to the thin stream of light which cuts its way into the darkness through the green shutters of the mansion across the way. “Hush! Hush! Live, live, Mirele,” Taibe whispers, trembling. “May God renew your life and may you live to be one hundred and twenty years old. . . . ”
The prayers are cut short. Dark memories overpower her. The doctors believe that Mirele will not live many days. "Only God can help," it is said . . . And Taibe's heart trembles. She knows that if God takes away Mirele, she and Sorach will be left. Were they destined for each other? Her husband is bound to leave her. Both of them have not enough to live on. America attracts him . . . Mirele is dying, and she, Taibe, remains, and Sorach is a widower. But she has no get, no divorce; and her heart beats fast as she sits in the moonlight . . .