less, as if death were stretching hands toward him, and then sought to escape one way or another.
“Jona! Jon-a-a!” they called after him in the street boy jargon, as soon as they saw him begin to tremble. He never tried to defend himself. As soon as he reached home he gave over his purchases and then sat down in a corner by the oven.
“Come here, dear little brother! Take your stool and sit by me,” coaxed his sister, who was only a year older. She was a pretty, slender, yellow haired girl, and she put her sewing aside at once.
He dragged the stool slowly along to her feet. She took the poor confused head to her breast. He sobbed as if his heart would break. She petted and caressed him, restraining her own tears with difficulty.
“I'm not foolish, am I?” he at length managed to say. His weak voice trembled.
“Of course you are not! You have sense, little brother. Let them talk!”
“And you like me, don't you—and I am not foolish!”
And over the face of the idiot there spread something that resembled a smile.
