“Oh, you are from Bohemia? That is the reason you speak with a different accent and have such a strange name! Ter-- I can not pronounce it.” “Tertschka,” she said. “It means ‘Therese,’ in German.” “Here in Austria they would call you Resi. But,” he continued, “if your stepfather takes your wages, he must at least give you enough to eat.” “Just enough to keep me from starving. You have no idea how stingy he is. He himself lives well; scarcely a day passes without his drinking too much; but to others he would not give even a drop of water unless they paid him for it; he could see them all starve first before he would voluntarily give them a bite to eat. So I have to content myself with the leavings, while he keeps my wages and also the forty florins[3] which my mother left to me. And that is not the worst. He is brutal and malicious and beats me cruelly quite often. You saw yourself yesterday how he lost his temper on account of the blouse I was mending for him.” “Yes, I did see it.” “My poor mother he treated in the same way. I firmly believe she sickened and finally died of consumption brought on in consequence of a violent blow he dealt her on the chest when he came home intoxicated and in a bad temper.” She was silent for a while, lost in all these sad memories. Finally George said: “If your stepfather treats you so badly, why do you stay with him?” “Because I know he would never let me go away,” she answered. “He needs this poor, helpless creature whom he can torture at will. With all his brutality and violent temper, he is, after all, just a coward. And besides--where should I go?” she added with a deep sigh. She took up the hammer again; George, now a little stronger, reached for his, too, and soon they were both hard at work. Hour after hour passed; the burning heat of midday lay oppressively over mountains and valleys; not a sign of life anywhere, save the monotonous click of the hammers and now and then the call of a woodpecker and the rough singing of the men working along the tracks. Suddenly there came the shrill sound of a bell. “What is that?” asked George, noticing that the laborers had laid down their tools and were walking toward the house. “The foreman rang the bell; it is meal-time.” “Is it time to eat?” he asked, with a faint voice. “What do you get here?” “Buckwheat gruel and potatoes. To-day probably some roast pork, too; they brought some meat up yesterday.” “It is very long since I tasted meat the last time,” he said thoughtfully. “Who is doing the cooking here, tell me?”