rns within them, and they want to eat.

"To-day you shall have an extra piece of bread," says the father, and
cuts his own in two, and Fradke and Beilke stretch out their dirty
little hands for it, and are overjoyed.

"Tatinke, you are not eating," remark the elder girls at supper, "this
is not a fast day!"

"And no more _do_ I fast!" replies the father, and thinks: "That was a
take-in, but not a lie, because, after all, a glass of water--that is
not eating and not fasting, either."

When it comes to the eve of the Ninth of Ab, Chayyim feels so light and
airy as he never felt before, not because it is time to prepare for the
fast by taking a meal, not because he may eat. On the contrary, he feels
that if he took anything solid into his mouth, it would not go down, but
stick in his throat.

That is, his heart is very sick, and his hands and feet shake; his body
is attracted earthwards, his strength fails, he feels like fainting.
But fie, what an idea! To fast a whole week, to arrive at the eve of the
Ninth of Ab, and not hold out to the end! Never!

And Chayyim Chaikin takes his portion of bread and potato, calls Fradke
and Beilke, and whispers:

"Children, take this and eat it, but don't let Mother see!"

And Fradke and Beilke take their father's share of food, and look
wonderingly at his livid face and shaking hands.

Chayyim sees the children snatch at the bread and munch and swallow, and
he shuts his eyes, and rises from his place. He cannot wait for the
other girls to come home from the factory, but takes his book of
Lamentations, puts off his shoes, and drags himself--it is all he can
do--to the Shool.

He is nearly the first to arrive. He secures a seat next the reader, on
an overturned bench, lying with its feet in the air, and provides
himself with a bit of burned-down candle, which he glues with its
drippings to the foot of the bench, leans against the corner of the
platform, opens his book, "Lament for Zion and all the other towns," and
he closes his eyes and sees Zion robed in black, with a black veil over
her face, lamenting and weeping and wringing her hands, mourning for her
children who fall daily, daily, in foreign lands, for other men's sins.

"And wilt not thou, O Zion, ask of me
Some tidings of the children from thee reft?
I bring thee greetings over land and sea,
From those remaining--from the remnant left!----"

And he opens his eyes and sees:

A bright sunbeam h