t; he crouched here in the darkness
beside her, stretching out his arms to her--and she was gone forever,
she was dead! He could have screamed aloud with the horror and despair
of it; a sweat of agony beaded his forehead, yet he dared not make a
sound--he scarcely dared to breathe, because of his shame and loathing
of himself.

Late at night came Elzbieta, having gotten the money for a mass, and
paid for it in advance, lest she should be tempted too sorely at home.
She brought also a bit of stale rye bread that some one had given her,
and with that they quieted the children and got them to sleep. Then she
came over to Jurgis and sat down beside him.

She said not a word of reproach--she and Marija had chosen that course
before; she would only plead with him, here by the corpse of his dead
wife. Already Elzbieta had choked down her tears, grief being crowded
out of her soul by fear. She had to bury one of her children--but then
she had done it three times before, and each time risen up and gone back
to take up the battle for the rest. Elzbieta was one of the primitive
creatures: like the angleworm, which goes on living though cut in half;
like a hen, which, deprived of her chickens one by one, will mother the
last that is left her. She did this because it was her nature--she asked
no questions about the justice of it, nor the worth-whileness of life in
which destruction and death ran riot.

And this old common-sense view she labored to impress upon Jurgis,
pleading with him with tears in her eyes. Ona was dead, but the others
were left and they must be saved. She did not ask for her own children.
She and Marija could care for them somehow, but there was Antanas, his
own son. Ona had given Antanas to him--the little fellow was the only
remembrance of her that he had; he must treasure it and protect it, he
must show himself a man. He knew what Ona would have had him do, what
she would ask of him at this moment, if she could speak to him. It was
a terrible thing that she should have died as she had; but the life had
been too hard for her, and she had to go. It was terrible that they
were not able to bury her, that he could not even have a day to mourn
her--but so it was. Their fate was pressing; they had not a cent, and
the children would perish--some money must be had. Could he not be a man
for Ona's sake, and pull himself together? In a little while they would
be out of danger--now that they had given up the house they