What made all this the more painful was that it was so hard on the few that had really done their best.  There was poor old ponas Jokubas, for instance—­he had already given five dollars, and did not every one know that Jokubas Szedvilas had just mortgaged his delicatessen store for two hundred dollars to meet several months’ overdue rent?  And then there was withered old poni Aniele—­who was a widow, and had three children, and the rheumatism besides, and did washing for the tradespeople on Halsted Street at prices it would break your heart to hear named.  Aniele had given the entire profit of her chickens for several months.  Eight of them she owned, and she kept them in a little place fenced around on her backstairs.  All day long the children of Aniele were raking in the dump for food for these chickens; and sometimes, when the competition there was too fierce, you might see them on Halsted Street walking close to the gutters, and with their mother following to see that no one robbed them of their finds.  Money could not tell the value of these chickens to old Mrs. Jukniene—­she valued them differently, for she had a feeling that she was getting something for nothing by means of them—­that with them she was getting the better of a world that was getting the better of her in so many other ways.  So she watched them every hour of the day, and had learned to see like an owl at night to watch them then.  One of them had been stolen long ago, and not a month passed that some one did not try to steal another.  As the frustrating of this one attempt involved a score of false alarms, it will be understood what a tribute old Mrs. Jukniene brought, just because Teta Elzbieta had once loaned her some money for a few days and saved her from being turned out of her house.

More and more friends gathered round while the lamentation about these things was going on.  Some drew nearer, hoping to overhear the conversation, who were themselves among the guilty—­and surely that was a thing to try the patience of a saint.  Finally there came Jurgis, urged by some one, and the story was retold to him.  Jurgis listened in silence, with his great black eyebrows knitted.  Now and then there would come a gleam underneath them and he would glance about the room.  Perhaps he would have liked to go at some of those fellows with his big clenched fists; but then, doubtless, he realized how little good it would do him.  No bill would be any less for turning out any one at this time; and then there would be the scandal—­and Jurgis wanted nothing except to get away with Ona and to let the world go its own way.  So his hands relaxed and he merely said quietly:  “It is done, and there is no use in weeping, Teta Elzbieta.”  Then his look turned toward Ona, who stood close to his side, and he saw the wide look of terror in her eyes.  “Little one,” he said, in a low voice, “do not worry—­it will not matter to us.  We will pay them all somehow.  I will work harder.”  That was always what