"This won't do for you," said the hostess, compassionately, as the coachman ushered in the new guest, opening the door into an adjoining room, at once her bed and dwelling room. She brought the milk immediately, protesting better could not be found in the wide world, and then watched the stranger filling the feeding-bottle and giving it to the child. "Don't you nurse the baby yourself?" she inquired. "Poor thing! I suppose you are too weak." The stranger had pulled the cloth which covered her head well down in front, so that her face could not be seen distinctly, but the hostess felt convinced it was pale and emaciated. "What a bonny boy! It is a boy, is it not? How merrily he uses his little legs! I suppose you have not travelled far, he is so wide awake. Have you come from Tluste?" "No," answered the stranger, "we have been travelling for weeks. But I have done the best I could for him, and compassionate people are to be found everywhere." "For weeks!" exclaimed the woman. "In winter! Then you have come from the neighborhood of Cracow, perhaps!" "Still farther away." "Still farther? Then from Aschkanas or Prague? There is a large congregation there. But, from your accent, I should have judged you belonged to this neighborhood. Will you spend the night with me?" The stranger declined. "I must go on into the town." "Because you fancy the inns there will be better," said the woman, somewhat hurt. However, she resumed, in a pitying tone, "How you are trembling! Have you a fever? Just wait; I'll bring you some soup, and if you are poor you need not trouble about the pay." And before an answer could be given she was away into the kitchen. But the stranger was not to be left alone long. First came the coachman. "Rest yourself, madam. I have plenty of time." Then a bearded man poked his head into the room. "God's welcome! I am the landlord. The soup will be here directly." Finally an old woman entered, at the sight of whom the stranger started, pulling her head-cloth still closer over her face. But the poor little woman with her shrivelled-up face, with its prominent hooked nose, did not bother her. She only said "Good-morning," and then sat down at the other end of the table and gazed into vacancy with her bleared eyes. The landlady came, bearing a steaming bowl. "Welcome, Aunt Miriam," she said to the old woman. "It is nice of you to come here instead of sitting over there alone in your little room." She placed the bowl before the stranger. "Help yourself. I have put some chicken in it; not much, but as much as I could." She then turned again to the old body. "It is not right, Aunt Miriam, for you to weep so much." "Ah!" sobbed Miriam Gold, "I cannot help it. It is as if my soul were bleeding. She was my child, my flesh, my blood!"