e first time during her conversation with Meir, Golda dropped
her eyes and mechanically began to pluck the high grass growing
around her. Meir looked at her silently. The innocence of her heart
was plainly manifested in her confusion, which caused him to blush,
and a timid joy shone with double light from his gray eyes, which
remained cast down.

"Sit beside me," said he finally, in a soft voice.

The girl rose from the ground and sat in the place indicated by him.
She had recovered all her boldness and gravity. She was silent and
looked at the youth who did not look at her. They were silent a long
time. Silence was around them; only above their heads the tall
birches rustled softly, and around the pond near by, which was grown
up with osier, the whistling and carolling of the marsh-dwelling
birds was heard.

Meir, who kept looking at the grass spread at his feet, was the first
to speak:

"Why do you bring your goat so late to the pasture?"

Golda answered:

"Because I don't wish to meet the other girls here."

"Do they also persecute you?"

"They laugh at me when they see me, and call me ugly names, and drive
me from them."

Meir raised his eyes to the girl, and in his glance there was deep
pity.

"Golda, are you afraid of those girls?"

Golda gravely shook her head in negation.

"I have grown up together with fear," she answered. "It's my brother,
and I am accustomed to it. But when I return home the old zeide asks:
'Have you met anybody? Have they annoyed you?' I can't lie, and if I
tell the truth the old zeide is very sad and he weeps."

"Did zeide alone bring you up?"

She nodded her head affirmatively.

"My parents died when I was as small as that bush. Zeide didn't have
any children, so he took me to his home and took care of me, and when
I was ill he carried me in his arms and kissed me. When I was older
he taught me to spin and read the Bible, and told me beautiful
stories which the Karaims brought from the far world. Zeide is good;
zeide is a dear old man--but so old--so old, and so poor. His hair is
snow-white from great age and his eyes are red as corals from
weeping. When he is making baskets I often lie at his feet and keep
my head in his lap, and he caresses my hair with his old, trembling
hand, and repeats: 'Josseyme! Josseyme!' (orphan)."

While thus speaking she sat a little bent over, with her elbow
resting on her knee. She balanced herself softly, looking into space.

Meir was