Mattes and Feivke started to walk home. Mattes gave a look at the clear sky, where the young half-moon had floated into view. "Mother will be expecting us," he said, and began to walk quickly. Feivke could hardly drag his feet. On the tall bridge they were met by a cool breeze blowing from the water. Once across the bridge, Mattes again quickened his pace. Presently he stopped to look around--no Feivke! He turned back and saw Feivke sitting in the middle of the road. The child was huddled up in a silent, shivering heap. His teeth chattered with cold. "Feivke, what is the matter? Why are you sitting down? Come along home!" "I won't"--Feivke clattered out with his teeth--"I c-a-n-'t--" "Did they hit you so hard, Feivke?" Feivke was silent. Then he stretched himself out on the ground, his hands and feet quivering. "Cold--." "Aren't you well, Feivke?" The child made an effort, sat up, and looked fixedly at his father, with his black, feverish eyes, and suddenly he asked: "Why did you cry there? Tate, why? Tell me, why?!" "Where did I cry, you little silly? Why, I just cried--it's Yom Kippur. Mother is fasting, too--get up, Feivke, and come home. Mother will make you a poultice," occurred to him as a happy thought. "No! Why did you cry, while they were laughing?" Feivke insisted, still sitting in the road and shaking like a leaf. "One mustn't cry when they laugh, one mustn't!" And he lay down again on the damp ground. "Feivele, come home, my son!" Mattes stood over the boy in despair, and looked around for help. From some way off, from the tall bridge, came a sound of heavy footsteps growing louder and louder, and presently the moonlight showed the figure of a peasant. "Ai, who is that? Matke the smith? What are you doing there? Are you casting spells? Who is that lying on the ground?" "I don't know myself what I'm doing, kind soul. That is my boy, and he won't come home, or he can't. What am I to do with him?" complained Mattes to the peasant, whom he knew. "Has he gone crazy? Give him a kick! Ai, you little lazy devil, get up!" Feivke did not move from the spot, he only shivered silently, and his teeth chattered. "Ach, you devil! What sort of a boy have you there, Matke? A visitation of Heaven! Why don't you beat him more? The other day they came and told tales of him--Agapa said that--" "I don't know, either, kind soul, what sort of a boy he is," answered Mattes, and wrung his bands in desperation. * * * * * Early next morning Mattes hired a conveyance, and drove Feivke to the town, to the asylum for the sick poor. The smith's wife came out and saw them start, and she stood a long while in the doorway by the Mezuzeh. And on another fine autumn morning, just when the villagers were beginning to cart loads of fresh earth to secure the village against overflowing streams, the village boys told one another the news of Feivke's death. THE LAST OF THEM