too roughly. She will die. I've seen her sort before."

"Then let her die!" said the woman. "Good riddance it will be if she
does not take kindly to my tasks."

"Suit yourself," said Michael; "but take my advice and give her a
little time."

"Time!" said Martha. "Time! What are you thinking of? There is no
time! She has lost two years, as it is. You don't seem to remember,
Michael, that I am as good a pickpocket as there is in Europe. That
child is almost too old to begin to learn the art. The other one,
Rika, is just about right; and she has such fine, delicate, little
fingers. Well, this one has good hands too. But you know well that
they are clumsy after they reach five. Do you remember the
yellow-haired child I trained about ten years ago? Ali, she was a
wonder! But you never could keep her down. How I used to beat her!
She would be black welts from her shoulders to her knees. No, you
could not keep her down. She was so ambitious. If she had only kept
out of politics, she might have been stealing yet. But now she is in
Siberia, in the mines. Bah! A home life for me, I say! What care I
who is in power, so long as pretty ladies carry shopping bags and wear
sparkling bracelets and flashing brooches! I say a woman wants to keep
to her own place. Isn't it so, my Michael?"

"Yes, indeed, " said Michael heartily. "I read the other day --"

"Read!" said Martha scornfully. "That's another mistake. Why should a
man like you read? Sooner or later it will get you in trouble. You
never know what the reading may contain. Better not know. What you