The old woman paused for a moment, shaking her head as if she wished to negative some thought that had risen to her mind. Then she continued: "Yes, he has certainly done great wonders. God's spirit moves him, and he has spoken His will concerning you and your child. We must believe what he says. I say that, whether we wish or not, we _must_ believe him. For if we lose our faith in him, we lose our faith in everything.... Therefore our rabbi did not deserve the hard things you said to him yesterday." "Ah, if you only knew!..." "Do not speak!" said the old woman, emphatically, as if she wished to impress each word on the widow's mind; "do not speak, do not excuse yourself. You need no excuse. My God! who could blame you, when your child's life was at stake? I can not, for I also am a mother.... But listen to me: whatever the rabbi ordains must be--as you know.... I have thought of everything, and your only chance is to go to Sadagora, and beg for the life of your child." "And leave her alone, when she is ill?" cried Miriam. "I will do all I can for her," said the old woman; and the gravedigger's wife added, "I will nurse her as if she were my own child." "Must I go?" cried the unhappy mother. "You must," answered the old woman decidedly; but she added more gently, "at least it seems that you ought to go, but God alone knows what is right. Ah, Miriam, you do not know how much I have thought and suffered for you and your child! For eighty years of my life, I have never lost my faith in God and in His prophets, and now I begin to doubt!" Then she collected herself, and said in a tone of command: "Miriam, you _must_ go to the rabbi. Tomorrow morning early, Simon the carrier is going to start for Czernowitz, with two women. He will take you as far as Sadagora. I will engage your seat for you in the cart; and here is money for going and returning. In three days you can be home again, and I am convinced you will find Lea getting better. Will you go, Miriam? It concerns the whole town--but that is nothing to you--it concerns your child that you should go." The poor woman had a hard struggle. Her old belief in God had been without avail, for the child was growing weaker. As a drowning man catches at a straw, she determined to beseech forbearance from the man whom she had cursed. "I will go," she said, with a sort of agony. * * * * * And she did go. Next morning she started with Simon and the two women, passing out of the town, and along the highroad which leads southward into Bukowina. What she suffered in taking leave of her child shall not be here described; there is enough that is sad in my story. The sun was rising. It was a cold, dull September sun, and it shone with a pale light upon the flat desolate country, and upon the cart which crawled slowly along the muddy highroad. The clouds were gathering like a thick veil, and the day became more and more dull as the clouds grew heavier.