"Finally the investigator, a young lady, came. She saw my daughters. They were neatly dressed, and as young girls generally are, they thought of their own life, were gay and healthy. The investigator started to examine them and after every answer she tried to confuse them and prove that they lied. She stayed a half hour. When she left the poor children were as pale as death--a terrible gloom had settled upon them--as though death itself had visited our shelter.
"From then on we had no repose. They helped us with a few dollars, but every other day some one else inquired about us--at the neighbours--at the grocer--butcher. They visited us at all hours of the day and night. Sometimes when we had visitors the investigator would question them, until all our friends have left us. They followed the poor children to their work and went to take information from the employer. On one occasion, when the girls struck together with the other workers of the shop the boss cried out to my girls: 'I'll show you! When the charity will come I'll give such information that you wouldn't get a cent.' This was too much for the poor children. They came home, packed their belongings--and--" Here the poor woman broke out in hysterical weeping, approaching the two empty beds, and cried: "My house is empty. Cursed be the hour when I applied to charity. I should have gone out begging in the street."
And as I slipped out of the house the cry of the woman pursued me.
"Cursed--Cursed be the hour that I applied to charity!"
I reported the next day the situation of the family and urged immediate relief. The Manager called me into his sanctum and told me that my information was not complete, since I had not learned where the daughters were. "I am sure," he said, "that she knows where they are. You must get it out of her."
"All right," I said, "but in the meantime send them relief. There is no coal, no bread."
"Are you sure?" he asked. I assured him of the fact.
"Then it's all right," and he rubbed his hands with great satisfaction. "It's all right," he repeated. "We'll break her stubbornness, all right. We'll get their address now. So they have no bread, eh?"
Cries from the waiting room came to my ears, as though a chorus of those unfortunate beings would blaspheme all together: "Cursed be the hour when we applied to charity--cursed--cursed--cursed."