“The landlord?” she cried, excitedly. “What for can it be?” With trembling fingers she tore open the note. The slip dropped from her hand. Her face grew livid, her eyes bulged with terror. “Oi weh!” she exclaimed, as she fell back against the wall. “Gewalt!” cried her husband, seizing her limp hand, “you look like struck dead.” “Oi-i-i! The murderer! He raised me the rent five dollars a month.” “Good for you! I told you to listen to me. Maybe he thinks we got money laying in the bank when you got so many dollars to give out on paint.” She turned savagely on her husband. “What are you tearing yet my flesh? Such a money-grabber! How could I imagine for myself that so he would thank me for laying in my money to painting up his house?” She seized her shawl, threw it over her head, and rushed to the landlord’s office. “Oi weh! Mr. Landlord! Where is your heart? How could you raise me my rent when you know my son is yet in France? And even with the extra washing I take in I don’t get enough when the eating is so dear?” “The flat is worth five dollars more,” answered Mr. Rosenblatt, impatiently. “I can get another tenant any minute.” “Have pity on me! I beg you! From where I can squeeze out the five dollars more for you?” “That don’t concern me. If you can’t pay, somebody else will. I got to look out for myself. In America everybody looks out for himself.” “Is it nothing by you how I painted up your house with my own blood-money?” “You didn’t do it for me. You done it for yourself,” he sneered. “It’s nothing to me how the house looks, so long as I get my rent in time. You wanted to have a swell house, so you painted it. That’s all.” With a wave of his hand he dismissed her. “I beg by your conscience! Think on God!” Hanneh Hayyeh wrung her hands. “Ain’t your house worth more to you to have a tenant clean it out and paint it out so beautiful like I done?” “Certainly,” snarled the landlord. “Because the flat is painted new, I can get more money for it. I got no more time for you.” He turned to his stenographer and resumed the dictation of his letters. Dazedly Hanneh Hayyeh left the office. A choking dryness contracted her throat as she staggered blindly, gesticulating and talking to herself. “Oi weh! The sweat, the money I laid into my flat and it should all go to the devil. And I should be turned out and leave all my beautifulness. And from where will I get the money for moving? When I begin to break myself up to move, I got to pay out money for the moving man, money for putting up new lines, money for new shelves and new hooks besides money for the rent. I got to remain where I am. But from where can I get together the five dollars for the robber? Should I go to Moisheh Itzek, the pawnbroker, or should I maybe ask Mrs. Preston? No--She shouldn’t think I got her for a friend only to help me. Oi weh! Where should I turn with my bitter heart?”