I heard it--I have always been a light sleeper--sprang joyfully from my bed on the chest, and ran to look at my "pet of a brother" (that is how I called him--I was so fond of him). I hoped to see a smile on the wan little face, such as came over it once a year--but it was a dead face I saw. There was a week's mourning. After that my father's health failed, and the Röfeh began to come to the house. So long as there was money to pay his fee, the old Röfeh came in person; later on, when all the bed-clothes and the hanging-lamp, with father's book-case, which for a while my mother wouldn't touch, had gone in medicines, the Röfeh began to send his "boy," the assistant. The "boy" displeased my mother dreadfully; he had merely a suspicion of pointed whiskers, was dressed like a Gentile, and was continually introducing Polish words into his speech. _I_ was afraid of him, to this day I don't know why. But when I knew he was to come, I ran and hid in the yard, and waited there till he had gone. One day a neighbor fell ill, also a poor man, and one whose furniture had apparently gone, too, and the "boy" (to this day I don't know what his name was) went to him straight from our house. Crossing the yard, he found me sitting on a log. I looked down. Aware of his approach, I felt a chill run through me, and my heart began to beat faster. He came up to me, took me by the chin, lifted my face and said: "A pretty girl like you ought not to have untidy hair! And she ought not to be ashamed before any lad in the world." He let me go, and I ran into the house. I felt that all the blood had rushed into my face at once. I squeezed into the darkest corner behind the stove, under pretense of counting the soiled linen. That was on a Wednesday. On Friday, for the first time, I reminded my mother of my own accord that my head needed washing, that it was frowzy. "More shame to me!" exclaimed my mother, wringing her hands. "I haven't combed her hair these three weeks." Suddenly she grew angry: "Lazy thing!" she cried; "a great girl like you and not able to comb her own hair! Another at your age would have washed the other children." "Sarah'le, don't scream," begged father; but her anger only grew more violent. "Lazy girl, you _shall_ comb your own hair, and this minute. Do you hear?" But I was afraid to go to the fire-place, where the hot water stood, because I had to pass mother, who would have given me a slap. Father saved me, as usual. "Sarah'le," he moaned, "don't scream, my head does ache so." That was enough. My mother's anger vanished. I ran freely across the room to the hot water. As I awkwardly combed my hair, I saw my mother go up to my father and point at me with a heavy sigh: "Lord of the world, the poor child grows taller every day," she whispered to my father, but my ears caught every word. "Fine as gold--and what's to be done with her?" Father answered with a still heavier sigh.