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The two children tripped into the passage, with napkins tied round their chins, their mouths greasy, but the rest of their persons unfamiliarly speckless and tidy. They stood still at the sight of their grandmother, so stern and frowning. Henry shut the door carefully.

‘My lambs!’ Natalya cried, in her sweetest but harsh tones, ‘Won’t you come and kiss me?’

Becky, a mature person of seven, advanced courageously and surrendered her cheek to her grandmother.

‘How are you, granny?’ she said ceremoniously.

‘And Joseph?’ said Natalya, not replying. ‘My heart and my crown, will he not come?’

The four-and-a-half year old Joseph stood dubiously, with his fist in his mouth.

‘Bring him to me, Becky. Tell him I want you and him to come and live with me.’

Becky shrugged her precocious shoulders. ‘He may. I won’t,’ she said laconically.

‘Oh, Becky!’ said the grandmother. ‘Do you want to stay here and torture your poor mother?’

Becky stared. ‘She’s dead,’ she said.

‘Yes, but her soul lives and watches over you. Come, Joseph, apple of my eye, come with me.’

She beckoned enticingly, but the little boy, imagining the invitation was to enter her bag and be literally carried away therein, set up a terrific howl. Thereupon the pretty young woman emerged hastily, and the child, with a great sob of love and confidence, ran to her and nestled in her arms.

‘Mamma, mamma,’ he cried.

Henry looked at the old woman with a triumphant smile.

Natalya went hot and cold. It was not only that little Joseph had gone to this creature. It was not even that he had accepted her maternity. It was this word ‘mamma’ that stung. The word summed up all the blasphemous foreignness of the new domesticity. ‘Mamma’ was redolent of cold Christian houses in whose doorways the old clo’-woman sometimes heard it. Fanny had been ‘mother’–the dear, homely, Jewish ‘mother.’ This ‘mamma,’ taught to the orphans, was like the haughty parade of Christian elegance across her grave.

‘When mamma’s shoes are to be sold, don’t forget me,’ Natalya hissed. ‘I’ll give you the best price in the market.’

Henry shuddered, but replied, half pushing her outside: ‘Certainly, certainly. Good-afternoon.’

‘I’ll buy them at your own price–ah, I see them coming, coming into my bag.’

The door closed on her grotesque sibylline intensity, and Henry clasped his wife tremblingly to his bosom and pressed a long kiss upon her fragrant cherry lips.

Later on he explained that the crazy old clo’-woman was known to the children, as to everyone in the neighbourhood, as ‘Granny.’

III

In the bearing of her first child the second Mrs. Elkman died. The rosy face became a white angelic mask, the dainty figure lay in statuesque severity, and a screaming, bald-headed atom of humanity was the compensation for this silence. Henry Elkman was overwhelmed by grief and superstition.

‘For three things women die in childbirth,’ kept humming in his brain from his ancient Hebrew lore. He did not remember what they were, except that one was the omission of the wife to throw into the fire the lump of dough from the Sabbath bread. But these neglects could not be visited on a Christian, he thought dully. The only distraction of his grief was the infant’s pressing demand on his attention.

It was some days before the news penetrated to the old woman.

‘It is his punishment,’ she said with solemn satisfaction. ‘Now my Fanny’s spirit will rest.’

But she did not gloat over the decree of the God of Israel as she had imagined beforehand, nor did she call for the dead woman’s old clo’. She was simply content–an unrighteous universe had been set straight again like a mended watch. But she did call, without her bag, to inquire if she could be of service in this tragic crisis.

‘Out of my sight, you and your evil eye!’ cried Henry as he banged the door in her face.

Natalya burst into tears, torn by a chaos of emotions. So she was still to be shut out.