And now, as she sat by the hearth cooking the children's supper, the same feeling came over her, that they had stolen her Yitzchokel away. When the children had eaten and gone to bed, she stood the lamp on the table, and began mending a shirt for Yitzchokel. Presently the door opened, and he, Yitzchokel, came in. Yitzchokel was about fourteen, tall and thin, his pale face telling out sharply against his black cloak beneath his black cap. "Good evening!" he said in a low tone. The mother gave up her place to him, feeling that she owed him respect, without knowing exactly why, and it was borne in upon her that she and her poverty together were a misfortune for Yitzchokel. He took a book out of the case, sat down, and opened it. The mother gave the lamp a screw, wiped the globe with her apron, and pushed the lamp nearer to him. "Will you have a glass of tea, Yitzchokel?" she asked softly, wishful to serve him. "No, I have just had some." "Or an apple?" He was silent. The mother cleaned a plate, laid two apples on it, and a knife, and placed it on the table beside him. He peeled one of the apples as elegantly as a grown-up man, repeated the blessing aloud, and ate. When Taube had seen Yitzchokel eat an apple, she felt more like his mother, and drew a little nearer to him. And Yitzchokel, as he slowly peeled the second apple, began to talk more amiably: "To-day I talked with the Dayan about going somewhere else. In the house-of-study here, there is nothing to do, nobody to study with, nobody to ask how and where, and in which book, and he advises me to go to the Academy at Makove; he will give me a letter to Reb Chayyim, the headmaster, and ask him to befriend me." When Taube heard that her son was about to leave her, she experienced a great shock, but the words, Dayan, Rosh-Yeshiveh, mekarev-sein, and other high-sounding bits of Hebrew, which she did not understand, overawed her, and she felt she must control herself. Besides, the words held some comfort for her: Yitzchokel was holding counsel with her, with her--his mother! "Of course, if the Dayan says so," she answered piously. "Yes," Yitzchokel continued, "there one can hear lectures with all the commentaries; Reb Chayyim, the author of the book "Light of the Torah," is a well-known scholar, and there one has a chance of getting to be something decent." His words entirely reassured her, she felt a certain happiness and exaltation, because he was her child, because she was the mother of such a child, such a son, and because, were it not for her, Yitzchokel would not be there at all. At the same time her heart pained her, and she grew sad. Presently she remembered her husband, and burst out crying: "If only _he_ had lived, if only he could have had this consolation!" she sobbed. Yitzchokel minded his book. That night Taube could not sleep, for at the thought of Yitzchokel's departure the heart ached within her.