Perhaps the poor woman told the truth; I think she did.

Then, as she stood there, she breathed a little prayer without any
words,--not for herself--for she did not suppose God would hear
_that_,--but for her children that she "banged about" every day of
their lives.

She was not really a Jewess, for she had no religion of any sort, and
never went to church; but I am sure of one thing: little overworked
Mandoline would have loved her mother better if she had known she ever
prayed for her at all.

In the morning, Mrs. Rosenberg was just as hard and sharp as ever; she
could not stop to be pleasant. Dotty longed to get away; but she was an
exile from her own dear home; whither could she turn?

It was a cold morning, and the children ran down stairs half dressed and
shivering. Dotty spread out her stiff, red fingers before the
cooking-stove like the sticks of a fan. "O, hum!" thought she, drearily,
"I wish I could see the red coals in our grate. My mamma wouldn't let me
go to the table with such hair as this. Prudy'd say 'twas 'harum scarum.'
But I can't brush it with a tooth-comb, 'thout any glass--so there!"

Dotty's curly hair looked quite as respectable as Mandoline's. Mrs.
Rosenberg was far too busy to attend to her children's heads. They might
be rough on the outside, and full of mischief inside; but she could not
stop to inquire.

"What a dreadful nice breakfast!" remarked Judith, rubbing her hands,