Paulina," the children always so spoke of her, "has kept it hot for you," and she darted through the door.
After what seemed to Kalman a very long time indeed, she appeared at the window with a covered dish of steaming stew.
"What kept you?" said her brother impatiently; "I am starved."
"That nasty, hateful, little Sprink," she said. "Here, help me through." She looked flushed and angry, her "burnin' brown eyes" shining like blazing coals.
"What is the matter?" said Kalman, when he had a moment's leisure to observe her.
"He is very rough and rude," said the girl, "and he is a little pig."
Kalman nodded and waited. He had no time for mere words.
"And he tried to kiss me just now," she continued indignantly.
"Well, that's nothing," said Kalman; "they all want to do that."
"Not for months, Kalman," protested Irma, "and never again, and especially that little Sprink. Never! Never!"
As Kalman looked at her erect little figure and her flushed face, it dawned on him that a change had come to his little sister. He paused in his eating.
"Irma," he said, "what have you done to yourself? Is it your hair that you have been putting up on your head? No, it is not your hair. You are not the same. You are--" he paused to consider, "yes, that's it. You are a lady."
The anger died out of Irma's brown eyes and flushed face. A soft and tender and mysterious light suffused her countenance.
"No, I am not a lady," she said, "but you remember what father said. Our mother was a lady, and I am going to be one."
Almost never had the children spoken of their mother. The subject was at once too sacred and too terrible for common speech. Kalman laid down his spoon.
"I remember," he said after a few moments' silence. A shadow lay upon his face. "She was a lady, and she died in the snow." His voice sank to a whisper. "Wasn't it awful, Irma?"
"Yes, Kalman dear," said his sister, sitting down beside him and putting her arms about his neck, "but she had no pain, and she was not afraid."
"No," said the boy with a ring in his voice, "she was not afraid; nor was father afraid either." He rose from his meal.
"Why, Kalman," exclaimed his sister, "you are not half done your feast. There are such lots of nice things yet."
"I can't eat, Irma, when I think of that--of that man. I choke here," pointing to his throat.
"Well, well, we won't think of him to-night. Some day very soon, we shall be free from him. Sit down and eat."
But the boy remained standing, his face overcast with a fierce frown.
"Some day," he muttered, more to himself than to his sister, "I shall kill him."
"Not to-day, at any rate, Kalman," said his sister, brightening up.
"Let us forget it to-night. Look at this pie. It is from Mrs.
Fitzpatrick, and this pudding."
The boy allowed his look to linger upon the dainties. He was a healthy boy and very hungry. As he looked his appetite returned.
He shook himself as if throwing off a burden.
"No, not to-night," he said; "I am not going to stop my feast for him."
"No, indeed," cried Irma. "Come quick and finish your feast. Oh, what eating we have had, and then what dancing! And they all want to dance with me," she continued,--"Jacob and Henry and Nicholas, and they are all nice except that horrid little Sprink."
"Did you not dance with him?"
"Yes," replied his sister, making a little face, "I danced with him too, but he wants me to dance with no one else, and I don't like that. He makes me afraid, too, just like Rosenblatt."
"Afraid!" said her brother scornfully.
"No, not afraid," said Irma quickly. "But never mind, here is the pudding. I am sorry it is cold."
"All right," said the boy, mumbling with a full mouth, "it is fine.
Don't you be afraid of that Sprink; I'll knock his head off if he harms you."
"Not yet, Kalman," said Irma, smiling at him. "Wait a year or two before you talk like that."
"A year or two! I shall be a man then."
"Oh, indeed!" mocked his sister, "a man of fifteen years."
"You are only fifteen yourself," said Kalman.
"And a half," she interrupted.
"And look at you with your dress and your hair up on your head, and--and I am a boy. But I am not afraid of Sprink. Only yesterday I--"
"Oh, I know you were fighting again. You are terrible, Kalman. I hear all the boys talking about you, and the girls too. Did you beat him? But of course you did."
"I don't know," said her brother doubtfully, "but I don't think he will bother me any more."
"Oh, Kalman," said his sister anxiously, "why do you fight so much?"
"They make me fight," said the boy. "They try to drive me off the corner, and he called me a greasy Dook. But I showed him I am no Doukhobor. Doukhobors won't fight."
"Tell me," cried his sister, her face aglow--"but no, I don't want to hear about it. Did you--how did you beat him? But you should not fight so, Kalman." In spite of herself she could not avoid showing her interest in the fight and her pride in her fighting brother.
"Why not?" said her brother; "it is right to fight for your rights, and if they bother me or try to crowd me off, I will fight till I die."
But Irma shook her head at him.
"Well, never mind just now," she cried. "Listen to the noise.
That is Jacob singing; isn't it awful? Are you going in?"
"Yes, I am. Here is my money, Irma, and that is for--that brute.
Give it to Paulina for him. I can hardly keep my knife out of him.
Some day--" The boy closed his lips hard.
"No, no, Kalman," implored his sister, "that must not be, not now nor ever. This is not Russia, or Hungary, but Canada."
The boy made no reply.
"Hurry and wash yourself and come out. They will want you to sing.
I shall wait for you."
"No, no, go on. I shall come after."
A shout greeted the girl as she entered the crowded room. There was no one like her in the dances of her people.
"It is my dance," cried one.
"Not so; she is promised to me."
"I tell you this mazurka is mine."
So they crowded about her in eager but good-natured contention.
"I cannot dance with you all," cried the girl, laughing, "and so I will dance by myself."
