a!" she consoles herself, "who talks of honor? Not every one is worthy
of both tables!"

She listens. Her shrivelled face alters from minute to minute; she is
nervous, too. A moment ago it was eloquent of delight. Now she remembers
it is Thursday, there isn't a dreier to spend in preparation for
Sabbath. The light in her face goes out by degrees, the smile fades,
then she takes a look through the grimy window, glances at the sun. It
must be getting late, and there isn't a spoonful of hot water in the
house. The needles pause in her hand, a shadow has overspread her face.
She looks at the child, it is sleeping less quietly, and will soon wake.
The child is poorly, and there is not a drop of milk for it. The shadow
on her face deepens into gloom, the needles tremble and move
convulsively.

And when she remembers that it is near Passover, that her ear-rings and
the festal candlesticks are at the pawnshop, the chest empty, the lamp
sold, then the needles perform murderous antics in her fingers. The
gloom on her brow is that of a gathering thunder-storm, lightnings play
in her small, grey, sunken eyes.

He sits and "learns," unconscious of the charged atmosphere; does not
see her let the sock fall and begin wringing her finger-joints; does not
see that her forehead is puckered with misery, one eye closed, and the
other fixed on him, her learned husband, with a look fit to send a
chill through his every limb; does not see her dry lips tremble and her
jaw quiver. She controls herself with all her might, but the storm is
gathering fury within her. The least thing, and it will explode.

That least thing has happened.

He was just translating a Talmudic phrase with quiet delight, "And
thence we derive that--" He was going on with "three,--" but the word
"derive" was enough, it was the lighted spark, and her heart was the
gunpowder. It was ablaze in an instant. Her determination gave way, the
unlucky word opened the flood-gates, and the waters poured through,
carrying all before them.

"Derived, you say, derived? O, derived may you be, Lord of the World,"
she exclaimed, hoarse with anger, "derived may you be! Yes! You!" she
hissed like a snake. "Passover coming--Thursday--and the child ill--and
not a drop of milk is there. Ha?"

Her breath gives out, her sunken breast heaves, her eyes flash.

He sits like one turned to stone. Then, pale and breathless, too, from
fright, he gets up and edges toward the door.

At the door