“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.