At these words Drabkin was strongly impelled to raise his head. Chashke herself had really said that it couldn’t be otherwise. But at once he recalled what else she had said, and again he felt ashamed and remained seated, his head closely applied to his task, dumb. Chyenke began to tell how she had sent off the workingmen, and how Drabkin had disappeared from home early that same morning——“He simply didn’t have the heart to witness it.” “And now,” she concluded, “I alone hire help and settle things as _I_ see fit.” She looked triumphantly at Chashke. Drabkin said nothing. “Come, mamma. Let’s be going home!” urged Chashke, rising. “What’s your hurry?” asked Drabkin. Chashke would have been delighted to spit square into his face. The old woman answered that their boarder would come and the door was locked. They left. Drabkin felt that Chashke had been there for the last time, and the thought was somewhat disquieting. But this unpleasantness was soon lost in the great contentment that overwhelmed him. He felt more free, more independent; a yoke fell from his neck; there would be no one before his eyes as a continual reminder of his former years and his former talk. Gone forever,—gone—and forgotten. Now he would really work,—work honestly. Here God was helping him to become a man among men,—then why shouldn’t he do it? And, naturally, he wouldn’t be like those dogs, his former employers. He would know that a workingman was a human being, too, and would treat his men altogether differently. They would be to him like his own people, like brothers. Chashke really was a fool. “Did you see in what a rage your Chashke left?” asked Chyenke, interrupting his thoughts. “Why are you always saying ‘your’ Chashke?” he queried, with a smile. “I know. You still run to her house.” “Pah! Better come and sit down here, right beside me. So!” He slapped his knee and stretched his arms out to her. * * * * * Chashke’s heart was heavy. So heavy, indeed, that she would gladly have wept. Her throat contracted with sorrow. She walked rapidly, and her mother could scarcely keep pace with her. “Just mark my word,” gasped the old woman, running after her daughter, “in a few years Drabkin will be rich,—worth several thousand roubles. _She_ has a smart head on her shoulders. If you had only half her brains I wouldn’t have to worry about you! Oh! Oh! Ah!...” It was the old mother’s disappointment that spoke in her,—disappointment that nothing had come of the intimacy between Drabkin and her daughter. “What do you want of me, mamma? Please don’t say any more,” entreated Chashke with a quivering voice, turning her pale countenance toward her mother. The little old woman was frightened by the quivering voice and the pale countenance. Waving her hand, she shook her head. “There! I mustn’t say a word!” she sighed. She spoke no more that night.