The little fellow stopped again, beginning to whimper. “Go on!” the other panted in frenzy⁠—“Go on!”

“I⁠—I will,” sobbed Stanislovas. “It’s so⁠—so cold all the time. And last Sunday it snowed again⁠—a deep, deep snow⁠—and I couldn’t⁠—couldn’t get to work.”

“God!” Jurgis half shouted, and he took a step toward the child. There was an old hatred between them because of the snow⁠—ever since that dreadful morning when the boy had had his fingers frozen and Jurgis had had to beat him to send him to work. Now he clenched his hands, looking as if he would try to break through the grating. “You little villain,” he cried, “you didn’t try!”

“I did⁠—I did!” wailed Stanislovas, shrinking from him in terror. “I tried all day⁠—two days. Elzbieta was with me, and she couldn’t either. We couldn’t walk at all, it was so deep. And we had nothing to eat, and oh, it was so cold! I tried, and then the third day Ona went with me⁠—”

“Ona!”