To bring her to my own room at the Jew's was obviously impossible, and
to advertise for a nurse for my child was to run the risk of falling
into the toils of somebody who might do worse than neglect her.
In my great perplexity I recalled the waitress at the restaurant whose
child had been moved to a Home in the country, and for some moments I
thought how much better it would be that baby should be "bonny and well"
instead of pale and thin as she was now. But when I reflected that if I
took her to a public institution I should see her only once a month, I
told myself that I could not and would not do so.
"I'll work my fingers to the bone first," I thought.
Yet life makes a fearful tug at a woman when it has once got hold of
her, and, strangely enough, it was in the Jew's house that I first came
to see that for the child's own sake I must part with her.
Somewhere about the time of my moving into the back room my employer
made a kind of bower of branches and evergreens over the lead-flat roof
of an outhouse in his back-yard--a Succah, as Miriam called it, built in
honour of the Feast of Tabernacles, as a symbol of the time when the
Israelites in the Wilderness dwelt in booths.
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