I shook as with ague. When there was dry-cupping to be done, the "boy" came, not the Röfeh himself. "Will you go and fetch the Röfeh?" asked my father. "The idea!" exclaimed my mother. "A Kallah-Mädel!" She went herself. "Why have you grown so pale?" asked my father, in alarm. "Nothing." "It's some days now," he persisted. "You imagine it, Tate."[15] "Your mother says the same." "_Eh!_" "To-day"--father wanted to cheer me up--"they are coming to measure you for the wedding dress." I was silent. "Aren't you pleased?" he asked. "Why shouldn't I be?" "You don't even know _what_ they are making you!" "But they've measured me once already." Hereupon my mother came in with the Röfeh himself. I felt relieved, and yet all the time something mourned within me: "Perhaps you will never see him again." "What a world it is!" Thus the Röfeh coming in panting and groaning. "Reb Zeinwill marries a young girl, and the treasurer's Leezerl has turned ascetic and run away from his wife." "Leezerl!" cried mother, in astonishment. "As I tell you; and here am I at sixty about early and late, and my assistant goes to bed." I began to tremble again. "Don't keep such a Gentile!" said my mother. "A Gentile?" said the Röfeh. "Why a Gentile?" "What's all that to me?" interrupted father, impatiently. "You'd better set to work." Father was naturally good-tempered; he always seemed to me incapable of hurting a fly, and yet his tone was so full of contempt for the Röfeh. When he lay sick in bed, he was always glad if anyone came in to have a chat with him, but he could never get on with the Röfeh; he always interrupted him and told him to see to his own business, but this was the first time he had spoken so strongly. It pained me, because how much rougher would he not have been with the other, who was lying ill? What is wrong with him? He had said his heart was weak. What that meant exactly, I did not know; it must be something for which one had to go to bed, and yet _my_ heart told me that I had something to answer for in the matter. That night I cried in my sleep; my mother woke me, and sat down beside me on my bed. "Hush, my child," she said, "don't let us wake father." And our conversation was whispered into each other's ears. I noticed that mother was greatly disturbed; she looked at me inquiringly, as though determined to get at the truth, and I resolved to say nothing, at all events so long as my father slept. "My child, why have you been crying?" "I don't know, mother." "Do you feel well?" "Yes, Mamishe; only sometimes my head aches." She sat on my bed, leaning half way over, and I drew nearer her and laid my head on her breast. "Mother," I asked, "why does your heart beat so loud?" "For fear, Tochter'she." "Are _you_ afraid at night, too?" "Night and day; I am afraid all the time." "What for are you afraid?" "I am afraid for you." "For me?" No reply, but I felt a warm tear fall on my face. "Mother, _you_ are crying now."