here to break stones. Yes, now I am a stonebreaker," he said, with a smile frightful in its bitterness. He picked up his hammer.
Tertschka stood silent with drooping head.
"But you will never be able to stand it," she said at last, in a low voice.
"Oh! yes, perhaps, when I get food to eat; these last days have been very hard for me. I have eaten nothing since yesterday morning."
She made no reply, but slowly unwrapped and took out of her apron a piece of black bread, which she broke into two parts. She held out to him the largest of the two pieces.
"Eat," she said.
He glanced timidly at the piece she offered him.
"But—it is your bread," he replied in confusion. And he made a gesture of refusal.
"That does not matter. I have quite enough for myself."
As he made no movement to accept it, she placed the bread by his side.
"You must be thirsty also," she continued:
"I will go and fetch you some water; there is a stream hard by."
She rose, took a small pitcher fixed among a heap of stones, and ascended the quarry towards the pine forest, where a tiny rill of limpid water trickled between tufts of green moss. She filled the pitcher and drank, and then filled it again, and returned with it. The piece of bread was still untouched.
He accepted the cool draught with gratitude.
"Thank you very much—very much," he said, in a broken voice, when he had finished drinking.
"It was done willingly; there is nothing to thank me for."
She sat down again.
"Eat," she continued, in a tone of sweet persuasion. "You can surely accept that of me."
The blood rushed to his face, and he took up the bread.
"Surely you, who are so kind-hearted, must also have been unhappy," he said, without looking at her, and breaking off a piece of bread.
"Yes, I know what it is to be unhappy; and I am often hungry myself."
A lump rose in his throat, and he felt as if he were choking.
"Is this work so badly paid then?" he asked, after a pause.
"I do not get paid at all."
"What—you receive no wages?"
"No; the overseer takes charge of them."
"The overseer?"
"He is my step-father."
"Your step-father?" he repeated, mechanically.
"Yes; my father was killed when I was quite little. Then my mother married the overseer, who at that time was simply a labourer. We all came hither from Bohemia."
"Then you are a native of Bohemia? and that is why you speak such a strange dialect, and why you have such a singular name? Tert———I cannot pronounce it."
"Tertschka," she repeated. "In German it is the same as Theresa; for short, I am called Resi."
"But," he continued, "if the overseer receives your wages, it is his duty to maintain you."
"Oh! he gives me just enough to keep me from starvation. He is a bad man. He beats me continually. You saw him, how he threatened me yesterday about his jacket?"
She paused, plunged in mournful remembrances.
"But if he illtreats you like that, why do you stay here?"
"I know that he would never let me go," she replied. "Some poor, defenceless being is always necessary to him, to torment with impunity. For he is a coward, though always ready to quarrel. And then, where should I go?" she continued, with a sigh. "Everywhere, life is sad. Everywhere, there is suffering."
So saying, she picked up her hammer, and George, feeling a little more revived, followed her example. Silently they returned to their work.
The hours rolled on; the heat of noon spread into the valley and upon the mountain. All was quiet, except for the regular heavy strokes of the hammers, and the tapping of the woodpecker in the branches. From time to time the hoarse voices of the men occupied on the line were heard, bursting into some brief refrain.
Suddenly the shrill tinkle of a bell rang out.
"What is that?" asked George, seeing the workpeople leaving their work and proceeding in the direction of the cabin.
"It is the dinner-bell," replied Tertschka. "Come, let us go."
He rose and followed her in silence. After finishing their meagre meal they returned together to the quarry, where they continued their hard toil until night fell.
