"I mean over a hundred years--thou shalt see a lot of countries and hills and thou shalt smell the grass cut by the river, maybe thou shalt see even the Dneister! Perhaps my brother Benya's daughter--she is how many years old, eight, nine--perhaps she will be a _studentka_ and thou wilt teach her English and she will teach thee _Russ_ and you'll get married--and thy old mamma, she'll not be there to see!" "Mother, it's not decent of you! You talk like that more and more, I don't know why, and if you'd only take more care of yourself, you could be the Fat Woman in a show!" "I'm sorry, son, I'm sorry," covering up her traces wistfully, "I mean I'll be over the sea in Angel Street, and you'll not want to wait till you come to England, thou and Rivkah--yes, yes, Rivkah is her name, God bless her! before you get married!" Some days later, after another sitting where conversation ranges over continents and stars, and there is no fatigue in their wings--"Say, mother! here's two more new-laid eggs! I think one's a duck's, does it matter?" "Oh a _katchky_! A big blue _katchky's_ egg! Oh, Feivele, where didst thou-- "Now don't ask! And anyhow, I've been sick of Longfellow for ages!" "See, I'll boil it now! There's time before he comes down! Thou wilt have half!" Stoutly, "Nothing, nothing! It's yours!" The egg is boiled. Sacredly, as if duck-egg-eating were a holy rite, Mrs. Massel eats her duck's egg. Once or twice she throws in fervent appreciations of the race of _katchkies_. Philip half hopes her cheeks will here and now take on a shade more colour from the nourishment he has provided for her out of the disposal of Evangeline. Her face still is pale, and there are still drawn lines at the mouth. Ah well, only wait till she's taken a lot more cod-liver oil and a lot more new-laid eggs, including as many _katchkies_ as discarded poets will provide....! "Feivele, he comes!" "Humph--ho! I'm going! Oh, look at your hands, how liny and seamy they are! Come, _do_ leave those brasses alone, they're so much work! And you know, when you don't clean 'em the only difference is they look like copper instead of brass! Ototototoi! I must be off, I suppose! What fat cherries they were--like babies! Well, you huge bullying monster of a mother, till to-morrow, till to-morrow!"