ote an answer at once--for letter-paper they used to
tear out, with fluttering hearts, the first, imprinted pages in the
Gemoreh--and gave it that evening to Lezer the carrier. Lezer took it
coldly, pushed it into the breast of his coat, and muttered something
like "All right!"

"What did he say, Berele?" asked Yainkele, anxiously.

"I think he said 'all right,'" Berele answered doubtfully.

"I think he said so, too," Yainkele persuaded himself. Then he gave a
sigh, and added fearfully:

"He may lose the letter!"

"Bite your tongue out!" answered Berele, angrily, and they went sadly
away to supper.

And three times a week, early in the morning, when Lezer the carrier
came driving, the two brothers flew, not ran, to the Dalissovke Inn, to
ask for an answer to their letter; and Lezer the carrier grew more
preoccupied and cross, and answered either with mumbled words, which the
brothers could not understand, and dared not ask him to repeat, or else
not at all, so that they went away with heavy hearts. But one day they
heard Lezer the carrier speak distinctly, so that they understood quite
well:

"What are you doing here, you two? What do you come plaguing me for?
Letter? Fiddlesticks! How much do you pay me? Am I a postman? Eh? Be off
with you, and don't worry."

The brothers obeyed, but only in part: their hearts were like lead,
their thin little legs shook, and tears fell from their eyes onto the
ground. And they went no more to Lezer the carrier to ask for a letter.

"I wish he were dead and buried!" they exclaimed, but they did not mean
it, and they longed all the time just to go and look at Lezer the
carrier, his horse and cart. After all, they came from Dalissovke, and
the two brothers loved them.

* * * * *

One day, two or three weeks after the carrier sent them about their
business in the way described, the two brothers were sitting in the
house of the poor relation and talking about home. It was summer-time,
and a Friday afternoon.

"I wonder what father is doing now," said Yainkele, staring at the small
panes in the small window.

"He must be cutting his nails," answered Berele, with a melancholy
smile.

"He must be chopping up lambs' feet," imagined Yainkele, "and Mother is
combing Chainele, and Chainele is crying."

"Now we've talked nonsense enough!" decided Berele. "How can we know
what is going on there?"

"Perhaps somebody's dead!" added Yainkele, in sud