"Well?" Feitel heard his father remark to his mother immediately after the Festival. His face was shining as if the greatest good fortune had befallen him. "Well? You fretted yourself to death. You were afraid. A woman remains a woman. Our Passover and their Easter have gone, and nothing." "Thank God," replied his mother. And Feitel could not understand what his mother had feared. And why were they glad that the Passover was gone? Would it not have been better if the Passover had been longer and longer? Feitel met Fedoka outside the door. He could not contain himself, but told him everything--how they had prayed, and how they had eaten. Oh, how they had eaten! He told him how nice all the Passover dishes were, and how sweet the wine. Fedoka listened attentively, and cast his eyes on Feitel's blouse. He was still thinking of "_matzo_." Suddenly there was a scream, and a cry in a high-pitched soprano: "Fedoka, Fedoka!" It was his mother calling him in for supper. But Fedoka did not hurry. He thought she would not pull his hair now. First of all, he had not been at the mill. Secondly, it was after the Passover. After the Passover there was no need to be afraid of the Jews. He stretched himself on the grass, on his stomach, propping up his white head with his hands. Opposite him lay Feitel, his black head propped up by his hands. The sky is blue. The sun is warm. The little wind fans one and plays with one's hair. The little calf stands close by. The cock is also near, with his wives. The two heads, the black and the white, are close together. The children talk and talk and talk, and cannot finish talking. * * * Nachman Veribivker is not at home. Early in the morning he took his stick, and let himself go over the village, in search of business. He stopped at every farm, bade the Gentiles good-morning, calling each one by name, and talked with them on every subject in the world. But he avoided all reference to the Passover incident, and never even hinted at his fears of the Passover. Before going away, he said: "Perhaps, friend, you have something you would like to sell?" "Nothing, 'Lachman,' nothing." "Old iron, rags, an old sack, or a hide?" "Do not be offended, 'Lachman,' there is nothing. Bad times!" "Bad times? You drank everything, maybe. Such a festival!" "Who drank? What drank? Bad times." The Gentile sighed. Nachman also sighed. They talked of different things. Nachman would not have the other know that he came only on business. He left that Gentile, and went to another, to a third, until he came upon something. He would not return home empty-handed. Nachman Veribivker, loaded and perspiring, tramped home, thinking only of one problem--how much he was going to gain or lose that day. He has forgotten the Passover eve incident. He has forgotten the fears of the Passover. The clerk, Kuratchka, and his governors and circulars have gone clean out of the Jew's head.