One day I read in the Jewish “Tageblatt” the advertisement from Zaretzky, the matchmaker. “What harm is it if I try my luck?” I said to myself. “I can’t die away an old maid. Too much love burns in my heart to stand back like a stone and only see how other people are happy. I want to tear myself out from my deadness. I’m in a living grave. I’ve got to lift myself up. I have nobody to try for me, and maybe the matchmaker will help.” As I walked up Delancey Street to Mr. Zaretzky, the street was turning with me. I didn’t see the crowds. I didn’t see the pushcart peddlers with their bargains. I didn’t hear the noises or anything. My eyes were on the sky, praying: “Gottuniu! Send me only the little bit of luck!” “Nu? Nu? What need you?” asked Mr. Zaretzky when I entered. I got red with shame in the face the way he looked at me. I turned up my head. I was too proud to tell him for what I came. Before I walked in I thought to tell him everything. But when I looked on his face and saw his hard eyes, I couldn’t say a word. I stood like a yok unable to move my tongue. I went to the matchmaker with my heart, and I saw before me a stone. The stone was talking to me--but--but--he was a stone! “Are you looking for a shidduch?” he asked. “Yes,” I said, proud, but crushed. “You know I charge five dollars for the stepping in,” he bargained. It got cold by my heart. It wasn’t only to give him the five dollars, nearly a whole week’s wages, but his thick-skinness for being only after the money. But I couldn’t help myself--I was like in his fists hypnotized. And I gave him the five dollars. I let myself go to the door, but he called me back. “Wait, wait. Come in and sit down. I didn’t question you yet.” “About what?” “I got to know how much money you got saved before I can introduce you to anybody.” “Oh--h--h! Is it only depending on the _money_?” “Certainly. No move in this world without money,” he said, taking a pinch of snuff in his black, hairy fingers and sniffing it up in his nose. I glanced on his thick neck and greasy, red face. “And to him people come looking for love,” I said to myself, shuddering. Oh, how it burned in my heart, but still I went on, “Can’t I get a man in America without money?” He gave a look on me with his sharp eyes. Gottuniu! What a look! I thought I was sinking into the floor. “There are plenty of _young_ girls with money that are begging themselves the men to take them. So what can you expect? _Not young, not lively, and without money, too?_ But, anyhow, I’ll see what I can do for you.” He took out a little book from his vest-pocket and looked through the names. “What trade do you go on your hands?” he asked, turning to me. “Sometimes a dressmaker or a hairdresser that can help make a living for a man, maybe--” I couldn’t hear any more. It got black before my eyes, my voice stopped inside of me.