Israel Zangwill

“ Even if the first touch of the cholera-fiend was not actually on him when he wrote, still he was, by his own confession, in that condition in which the disease takes easiest grip. By this time he was on a bed of sickness—nay, perhaps on his death-bed, if not dead. Even in those days the little grandmother had lived beyond the common span; she had seen many people die, and knew that the Angel of Death does not go about his work leisurely. In an epidemic his hands are too full to enable him to devote much attention to each case. ”

“ And so, that very evening, having made a hasty meal, and lodged the precious letter in her bosom, the little grandmother girded up her loins to walk the seven and thirty miles. No staff took she with her, for to carry such came under the Talmudical definition of “work.” Neither could she carry an umbrella, though it was a season of rain. Mile after mile she strode briskly towards the pallid face which lay so far beyond the horizon, and yet ever shone before her eyes like a guiding star. ”

“ But the little grandmother knew the road ran straight. All night she walked through the forest, fearless as Una, meeting neither man nor beast, though the wolf and the bear haunted its recesses, and snakes lurked in the bushes. But only the innocent squirrels darted across her path. The morning found her spent and almost lame. But she walked on. Almost half the journey was yet to do.
She had nothing with her to eat; food, too, was an illegal burden, nor could she buy any on the holy day. She said her Sabbath-morning prayer walking, hoping God would forgive the disrespect. ”