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Any apples today？” a cheery voice asked at my studio window. “2）Winesap， 3）Wealthy， 4）Northern Spy？ Can’t you use a 5）bushel？”
I stepped out into the haze of an October noon to take a look. At first glance， the woman seemed older than the world’s aunt. Her face， wrinkled with twice my years （I was then an arrogant 26）， was an herbish bouquet that made you think of 6）tansy and 7）thyme. But the most remarkable thing about her was the light that burned in her wonderful brown eyes.
I followed her to a small truck. She plied me with samples， and I ended up buying a bushel of redcheeked Winesaps. On credit， of course. Cash was the one thing in the world I lacked just then. I had a wife， a baby， ambition—everything but money. “Pay me whenever you like，” said Effie， climbing into her truck.
All 8）pretense of payment was dropped during that desperate autumn while our funds， food， and fuel 9）ebbed to alarming lows. Euphemia came often， always bearing some gift： a gallon of maple syrup or a jar of peaches.
She guessed that my work was not marching and could see that I was too young， too inexperienced， to make it march. Well， there was nothing she could do about that. But she could do something about my woodpile—and she did. One day before Christmas， she rode up in her truck. It was covered with pine boughs， and under the holiday 10）camouflage was a half cord of 11）seasoned rock oak sawed into just the right lengths for my drum stove. There were other generosities， always 12）unobtrusive. For instance， when our baby was not doing well， Effie financed my wife’s trip to New York to consult with a specialist.
And we were not the only recipients of her kindness. Effie’s soul was a house of many mansions， jammed with people whom she had befriended. One day she read in the paper that a pregnant mother traveling from San Francisco had arrived penniless in New York， only to learn that her husband had been killed in an accident. Effie cashed a $500 bond and sent her the entire amount. A lifelong correspondence with an intelligent and grateful human being was Effie’s 13）recompense.
Effie was not a rich woman. Her income， derived from investments she had made while running an interiordecorating shop in New York， had never exceeded $200 a month. The 1929 crash reduced this to a 14）pittance， which she 15）eked out by peddling her apples. But even when her funds were at their lowest， she always managed to help someone poorer. One of Effie’s 16）cardinal principles was never to “lend” money. She preferred to give it outright. Surprisingly often， the money came back. Many times， I saw her come out of the post office waving a check.“Bread cast on the waters，” she’d say triumphantly—adding， with a touch of 17）rue at the wasting years—“ever so long ago.”
In dealing with touchy customers like myself， Effie tried to conceal her generosity under the guise of a business arrangement. For instance， her father， who had been a painter， had written his autobiography. In the 18）trough of my worst financial crisis， Effie dug out the dusty manuscript and offered me a fee for editing it. Not until after her death did I learn that she had sold another bond to pay me for this job.
Effie’s chief delight was conversation or， rather， a kind of 19）Scheherazade storytelling. I would sit 20）enthralled while she depicted the lives and loves of people she had known in Paris， Rome， or New York， furnishing her discourse with heroes， heroines， and 21）villains.
One day she told me her own story. At the age of 30， she had dared break the taboos of her day by having a secret love affair. Five years later， her lover died. The remainder of her life was spent “in unmourning remembrance” of her short-lived happiness. This memory gave Effie her special sympathy for young husbands， wives， and lovers.
Years passed before I was able to return the money that Effie had given me from time to time. She was ill now and had aged rapidly in the last year. “Here， darling，” I said， “is the negotiable part of what I owe you.”
Tears were in her eyes as she handed back my check. “Don’t give it to me all at once，” she pleaded.
“Why not， Effie？”
Her face was very old， tired， and beautiful as she said， “Give it back as I gave it to you—a little at a time.” I think she believed there was magic in the slow discharge of a love debt—some secret 22）talisman that would shield her against death till the account was closed.
The simple fact is that I never repaid the whole amount to Effie， for she died a few weeks later. At that time it seemed that my debt would forever go unsettled. But a curious thing began to happen.
Whenever I saw a fellow human in financial 23）straits， I was moved to help him—as Effie had helped me—by small outright gifts of money. I can’t afford to do this always， but in the ten years since Effie’s death， I have indirectly repaid my debt to her a dozen times. The oddest part of the whole affair is this： People whom I help often help others later on. By now， the few dollars that Euphemia gave me have been multiplied a hundred-fold. So the account can never be marked closed， for Effie’s love will go on compounding interest in hearts that have never known her.
今天要来点苹果吗？”一个欢快的声音在我工作室的窗边问道。“晚熟果、红秋果、君袖果？你不能用个蒲式耳容器来装吗？”
我走出去瞧了一瞧，十月的正午，外面一片阴霾。乍一看，这个女人看起来似乎比世界上所有的大婶都要苍老。她脸上的皱纹是我年岁的两倍（我当时26岁，傲慢无知），整张脸就像是一束香草捧花，让你想到艾菊和百里香。但是她身上最引人注目的地方是她那双美丽的棕色眼睛里闪烁着的光芒。
我跟着她走到了一辆小卡车旁。她把各种苹果塞给我尝，我最后买了一蒲式耳红艳欲滴的晚熟果。当然了，赊账买来的。那时，我在这个世界上最缺的一样东西就是现钱。我有一个妻子、一个孩子、还有雄心壮志—所有的一切，除了钱。“你什么时候付给我都行”，埃菲说道，爬进了她的卡车。
在那个令人绝望的秋天，我们的资金、食物、燃油都降到了令人惊恐的低水平，我不再假意付款。尤菲米娅经常过来，总是带上一些礼物：一加仑的枫糖或是一瓶桃子。
她猜想我的工作没有进展，还猜到了其中的原因是我太过年轻、经验不足。嗯，对此，她帮不上什么忙。但是她能为我的柴垛出几分力—她也这样做了。在圣诞节到来前的某一天，她开着她的卡车来到这里。车上装着一些松树枝，在这一节日装饰掩盖下的是半捆干岩栎，被锯成了刚好适合我那鼓形炉子的长短。她还有过其他慷慨之举，总是低调不显唐突。比如说，当我们孩子的状况不太好时，埃菲资助了我妻子去纽约咨询专门医师的费用。
我们并不是唯一接受过她热心帮助的人。埃菲的灵魂装着许多栋大厦，里面住满了她帮助过的人。有一天，她在报纸上读到有一名孕妇从旧金山到达纽约后，身无分文，却得知丈夫在一场意外中丧生。埃菲就兑现了价值500美元的债券并把钱都寄给了那名孕妇。而埃菲得到的回报则是与一个聪明感恩的人保持了一生的通信。
埃菲并不是一个富裕的女人。她每月的收入从未超过200美元，来自于她在纽约经营一家室内装饰店时的投资。由于1929年的经济危机，她的收入大大减少，所以靠卖苹果来维持生计。但是，就算她的积蓄跌到了最低水平，她也总能帮到一些更加穷困的人。
埃菲的一个基本原则是从不“借”钱。她更乐意痛快地把钱送出去。出人意料的是，这些钱经常都会回来。我多次看到过她从邮局出来，挥动着一张支票。“打了水漂的面包，”她会欢欣鼓舞地说道—再感怀伤时地加上一句—“很久以前的事儿了。”
对像我这么难搞的客户，埃菲会着力以做生意为幌子掩饰她的善心。举个例子，埃菲的父亲是个画家，曾写过一本自传。在我处于财政危机的低谷时，埃菲把那本布满灰尘的手稿挖了出来，付钱让我对其进行编辑。直到她逝世后，我才知道她卖了她的另一张债券来付给我这份工作的钱。
埃菲多以谈话为乐，或者，更确切地说，是以一种谢赫拉莎德式的方式讲述故事。当她在描述她所认识的那些身处巴黎、罗马、或者纽约的人们的生活与爱情，并添上男女主角和反派角色以增色时，我会着迷地坐在一旁。
有一天，她告诉了我她自己的故事。在她30岁那年，她打破她那个年代的禁忌，与一个人保持了一段秘密恋情。五年以后，她的情人去世了。而她的余生则都花在了以一种“不哀悼的怀念方式”来追忆她那段短暂的幸福。这段记忆让埃菲对年轻的夫妻和情侣怀有一种特殊的同情之心。
几年过去了，我还没有能力还上埃菲时不时给我的钱。这时，她生病了，并在最后那年急速变老。“亲爱的，”我说道，“这是我能还给你的那部分钱。”
她眼含泪光地把我的支票还了回来，“不要把钱一次性给我，”她恳求道。
“为什么不呢，埃菲？”
她的面容非常苍老、疲惫，但也非常美丽，她说道：“像我给你那样还我吧—一次一点点。”我想，她相信慢慢偿还爱的债务那过程中存在着魔力—一些秘密法宝会保护她，不让她死去，直到这笔账被还清为止。
但事实是我并没有还清欠埃菲的钱，她在几周后就去世了。那时，似乎我欠下的债永远也无法偿清了。然而，一件奇怪的事情发生了。
每当我看到有人在经济上有困难时，我都会过去帮他一把—就像埃菲帮我的那样—通过直接赠予小额金钱的方式。我并不总是负担得起这样做，但是在埃菲死后的这十年来，我间接还给埃菲的钱已经是我欠她的十几倍。
这整件事最奇怪的地方就在于：我帮过的人通常在之后也会去帮助别人。目前为止，尤菲米娅给我的那一点钱已经翻了100倍。所以这笔账永远也清不了，因为埃菲的爱会继续在那些并不认识她的人心中生生不息。
I stepped out into the haze of an October noon to take a look. At first glance， the woman seemed older than the world’s aunt. Her face， wrinkled with twice my years （I was then an arrogant 26）， was an herbish bouquet that made you think of 6）tansy and 7）thyme. But the most remarkable thing about her was the light that burned in her wonderful brown eyes.
I followed her to a small truck. She plied me with samples， and I ended up buying a bushel of redcheeked Winesaps. On credit， of course. Cash was the one thing in the world I lacked just then. I had a wife， a baby， ambition—everything but money. “Pay me whenever you like，” said Effie， climbing into her truck.
All 8）pretense of payment was dropped during that desperate autumn while our funds， food， and fuel 9）ebbed to alarming lows. Euphemia came often， always bearing some gift： a gallon of maple syrup or a jar of peaches.
She guessed that my work was not marching and could see that I was too young， too inexperienced， to make it march. Well， there was nothing she could do about that. But she could do something about my woodpile—and she did. One day before Christmas， she rode up in her truck. It was covered with pine boughs， and under the holiday 10）camouflage was a half cord of 11）seasoned rock oak sawed into just the right lengths for my drum stove. There were other generosities， always 12）unobtrusive. For instance， when our baby was not doing well， Effie financed my wife’s trip to New York to consult with a specialist.
And we were not the only recipients of her kindness. Effie’s soul was a house of many mansions， jammed with people whom she had befriended. One day she read in the paper that a pregnant mother traveling from San Francisco had arrived penniless in New York， only to learn that her husband had been killed in an accident. Effie cashed a $500 bond and sent her the entire amount. A lifelong correspondence with an intelligent and grateful human being was Effie’s 13）recompense.
Effie was not a rich woman. Her income， derived from investments she had made while running an interiordecorating shop in New York， had never exceeded $200 a month. The 1929 crash reduced this to a 14）pittance， which she 15）eked out by peddling her apples. But even when her funds were at their lowest， she always managed to help someone poorer. One of Effie’s 16）cardinal principles was never to “lend” money. She preferred to give it outright. Surprisingly often， the money came back. Many times， I saw her come out of the post office waving a check.“Bread cast on the waters，” she’d say triumphantly—adding， with a touch of 17）rue at the wasting years—“ever so long ago.”
In dealing with touchy customers like myself， Effie tried to conceal her generosity under the guise of a business arrangement. For instance， her father， who had been a painter， had written his autobiography. In the 18）trough of my worst financial crisis， Effie dug out the dusty manuscript and offered me a fee for editing it. Not until after her death did I learn that she had sold another bond to pay me for this job.
Effie’s chief delight was conversation or， rather， a kind of 19）Scheherazade storytelling. I would sit 20）enthralled while she depicted the lives and loves of people she had known in Paris， Rome， or New York， furnishing her discourse with heroes， heroines， and 21）villains.
One day she told me her own story. At the age of 30， she had dared break the taboos of her day by having a secret love affair. Five years later， her lover died. The remainder of her life was spent “in unmourning remembrance” of her short-lived happiness. This memory gave Effie her special sympathy for young husbands， wives， and lovers.
Years passed before I was able to return the money that Effie had given me from time to time. She was ill now and had aged rapidly in the last year. “Here， darling，” I said， “is the negotiable part of what I owe you.”
Tears were in her eyes as she handed back my check. “Don’t give it to me all at once，” she pleaded.
“Why not， Effie？”
Her face was very old， tired， and beautiful as she said， “Give it back as I gave it to you—a little at a time.” I think she believed there was magic in the slow discharge of a love debt—some secret 22）talisman that would shield her against death till the account was closed.
The simple fact is that I never repaid the whole amount to Effie， for she died a few weeks later. At that time it seemed that my debt would forever go unsettled. But a curious thing began to happen.
Whenever I saw a fellow human in financial 23）straits， I was moved to help him—as Effie had helped me—by small outright gifts of money. I can’t afford to do this always， but in the ten years since Effie’s death， I have indirectly repaid my debt to her a dozen times. The oddest part of the whole affair is this： People whom I help often help others later on. By now， the few dollars that Euphemia gave me have been multiplied a hundred-fold. So the account can never be marked closed， for Effie’s love will go on compounding interest in hearts that have never known her.
今天要来点苹果吗？”一个欢快的声音在我工作室的窗边问道。“晚熟果、红秋果、君袖果？你不能用个蒲式耳容器来装吗？”
我走出去瞧了一瞧，十月的正午，外面一片阴霾。乍一看，这个女人看起来似乎比世界上所有的大婶都要苍老。她脸上的皱纹是我年岁的两倍（我当时26岁，傲慢无知），整张脸就像是一束香草捧花，让你想到艾菊和百里香。但是她身上最引人注目的地方是她那双美丽的棕色眼睛里闪烁着的光芒。
我跟着她走到了一辆小卡车旁。她把各种苹果塞给我尝，我最后买了一蒲式耳红艳欲滴的晚熟果。当然了，赊账买来的。那时，我在这个世界上最缺的一样东西就是现钱。我有一个妻子、一个孩子、还有雄心壮志—所有的一切，除了钱。“你什么时候付给我都行”，埃菲说道，爬进了她的卡车。
在那个令人绝望的秋天，我们的资金、食物、燃油都降到了令人惊恐的低水平，我不再假意付款。尤菲米娅经常过来，总是带上一些礼物：一加仑的枫糖或是一瓶桃子。
她猜想我的工作没有进展，还猜到了其中的原因是我太过年轻、经验不足。嗯，对此，她帮不上什么忙。但是她能为我的柴垛出几分力—她也这样做了。在圣诞节到来前的某一天，她开着她的卡车来到这里。车上装着一些松树枝，在这一节日装饰掩盖下的是半捆干岩栎，被锯成了刚好适合我那鼓形炉子的长短。她还有过其他慷慨之举，总是低调不显唐突。比如说，当我们孩子的状况不太好时，埃菲资助了我妻子去纽约咨询专门医师的费用。
我们并不是唯一接受过她热心帮助的人。埃菲的灵魂装着许多栋大厦，里面住满了她帮助过的人。有一天，她在报纸上读到有一名孕妇从旧金山到达纽约后，身无分文，却得知丈夫在一场意外中丧生。埃菲就兑现了价值500美元的债券并把钱都寄给了那名孕妇。而埃菲得到的回报则是与一个聪明感恩的人保持了一生的通信。
埃菲并不是一个富裕的女人。她每月的收入从未超过200美元，来自于她在纽约经营一家室内装饰店时的投资。由于1929年的经济危机，她的收入大大减少，所以靠卖苹果来维持生计。但是，就算她的积蓄跌到了最低水平，她也总能帮到一些更加穷困的人。
埃菲的一个基本原则是从不“借”钱。她更乐意痛快地把钱送出去。出人意料的是，这些钱经常都会回来。我多次看到过她从邮局出来，挥动着一张支票。“打了水漂的面包，”她会欢欣鼓舞地说道—再感怀伤时地加上一句—“很久以前的事儿了。”
对像我这么难搞的客户，埃菲会着力以做生意为幌子掩饰她的善心。举个例子，埃菲的父亲是个画家，曾写过一本自传。在我处于财政危机的低谷时，埃菲把那本布满灰尘的手稿挖了出来，付钱让我对其进行编辑。直到她逝世后，我才知道她卖了她的另一张债券来付给我这份工作的钱。
埃菲多以谈话为乐，或者，更确切地说，是以一种谢赫拉莎德式的方式讲述故事。当她在描述她所认识的那些身处巴黎、罗马、或者纽约的人们的生活与爱情，并添上男女主角和反派角色以增色时，我会着迷地坐在一旁。
有一天，她告诉了我她自己的故事。在她30岁那年，她打破她那个年代的禁忌，与一个人保持了一段秘密恋情。五年以后，她的情人去世了。而她的余生则都花在了以一种“不哀悼的怀念方式”来追忆她那段短暂的幸福。这段记忆让埃菲对年轻的夫妻和情侣怀有一种特殊的同情之心。
几年过去了，我还没有能力还上埃菲时不时给我的钱。这时，她生病了，并在最后那年急速变老。“亲爱的，”我说道，“这是我能还给你的那部分钱。”
她眼含泪光地把我的支票还了回来，“不要把钱一次性给我，”她恳求道。
“为什么不呢，埃菲？”
她的面容非常苍老、疲惫，但也非常美丽，她说道：“像我给你那样还我吧—一次一点点。”我想，她相信慢慢偿还爱的债务那过程中存在着魔力—一些秘密法宝会保护她，不让她死去，直到这笔账被还清为止。
但事实是我并没有还清欠埃菲的钱，她在几周后就去世了。那时，似乎我欠下的债永远也无法偿清了。然而，一件奇怪的事情发生了。
每当我看到有人在经济上有困难时，我都会过去帮他一把—就像埃菲帮我的那样—通过直接赠予小额金钱的方式。我并不总是负担得起这样做，但是在埃菲死后的这十年来，我间接还给埃菲的钱已经是我欠她的十几倍。
这整件事最奇怪的地方就在于：我帮过的人通常在之后也会去帮助别人。目前为止，尤菲米娅给我的那一点钱已经翻了100倍。所以这笔账永远也清不了，因为埃菲的爱会继续在那些并不认识她的人心中生生不息。