He said this in his most lively manner, and moved towards the door; but again Meir arrested his steps.

"Reb!" he said, "listen at least to what I have to say."

There was a gleam of impatience in Witebski's eyes. "Ah, Meir! what an obstinate fellow you are, wanting to force your elders to do or hear things they do not want to! Well, I forgive you, and now let me go and bring the young woman."

Meir barred the way

"Reb," he said, "I will not let you go before you have heard me. I have no one else to go to; everybody is occupied with business or visitors. You alone, Reb, have time."

He stopped, because the merchant laid his hand upon the young man's shoulder; he was no longer smiling, but looked grave and displeased.

"Listen, Meir," he said. "I will tell you one thing. You have taken a wrong turning altogether. People shake their heads and speak badly of you; but I am indulgent with you. I make allowance because you are young, and because I am not of the same way of thinking as the people here, and know that many things in Israel are not as they ought to be. I think it; but do not speak about it or show it. Why should I expose myself to their ill-feeling? What can I do? If it be the Lord who ordered it so, why should I offend Him and make Him turn against me? If it be people's doing, other people will come in time to set it right. My business is to look after my family and their well-being. I am not a judge or a Rabbi either; therefore I keep quiet, try to please God and the people, and be in nobody's way. These re my principles, and I wish they were yours also Meir. I should let you go your own way, and not give advice to you either; but since you are to be my son-in-law, I must keep my eye upon you."

"Rob!" interrupted Meir, whose eyelids quivered with suppressed irritation, "do not be angry with me or think me rude, but I cannot marry your daughter. I shall never be her husband."

Witebski turned rigid with amazement.

"Do we hear aright?" he said, after a while. "Did not your grandfather pledge you to her and send the betrothal gifts?"

"My grandfather agreed with you about it," said Meir, in a trembling voice; "but he did it against my wish."

"Well," said Witebski, with the greatest amazement, "and what have you to say against my daughter?"

"I have no feelings against her, Rob; but my heart is not drawn to her. She also does not care for me. The other day, when passing your house, I heard her crying and lamenting that they wanted her to marry a common, ignorant Jew. It may be I am a common, ignorant Jew, but her education likewise is not to my taste. Why should you wish to bind us? We are not children, and know what our heart desires and what it does not desire."

Witebski still looked at the young man in utter bewilderment, and raising both hands to his head, exclaimed indignantly:

"Did my ears not deceive me? You do not want my daughter—my beautiful, educated Mera?"

A hot flush had mounted to his forehead. The gentle diplomatist and man of the world had disappeared, only the outraged father remained.

At the same time the door was violently thrown open, and upon the threshold, with a very red face and blazing eyes, stood Mistress Hannah.

Evidently she had been at her toilette, which was only partly completed. Instead of her silk gown she wore a short red petticoat and gray jacket. The front of her wig was carefully dressed, but a loose braid fastened by a string dangled gracefully at her back. She stood upon the threshold and gasped out:

"I have heard everything!"

She could not say any more from excitement. Her breast heaved and her face was fiery red. At last she rushed with waving arms at Meir, and shouted:

"What is that? You refuse my daughter! You, a common, stupid Jew from Szybow, do not wish to marry a beautiful, educated girl like my Mera! Fie upon you—an idiot, a profligate!"

Witebski tried in vain to mitigate the fury of his better half.

"Hush, Hannah, hush!" he said, holding her by the elbow.

But all the breeding and distinguished manners upon which Mistress Hannah prided herself had vanished. She shook her clenched fist close in Meir's face:

"You do not want Mera, my beautiful daughter! Ai! Ai! the great misfortune!" she sneered. "It will certainly kill us with grief. She will cry her eyes out after the ignorant Jew from Szybow! I shall take her to Wilno and marry her to a count, a general, or a prince. You think that because your grandfather is rich and you have money of your own you can do what you like. I will show your grandfather and all your family that I care for them as much as for an old slipper!"

Eli carefully closed the door and windows. Mistress Hannah rushed toward a chest of drawers, opened it and took out, one after the other, the velvet-lined boxes, and throwing them at Meir's feet, exclaimed:

"There, take your presents and carry them to the beggar girl you are consorting with; she will be just the wife for you."

"Hush!" hissed out the husband, almost despairingly, as he stooped down to pick up the boxes but Mistress Hannah tore them out of his hands.

"I will carry them myself to his grandfather, and break off the engagement."

"Hannah," persuaded the husband, "you will only make matters worse. I will take them myself and speak with Saul."

Hannah did not even hear what he said.

"For shame!" she cried out; "the madman, the profligate, to prefer the Karaite's girl to my daughter! Well, the Lord be thanked we have got rid of him. Now I shall take my daughter to Wilno and marry her to a great nobleman."

It was about noon when Meir left Witebski's house, pursued by the curses and scoldings of its mistress and the gentle remonstrances and conciliatory words of Eli. The fair was now in full swing. The large market square was full of vehicles of all kinds, animals and people, that it seemed as if nobody could pass or find room any longer. In one part of the square where the crowd was less dense, close by the wall of a large building, sat an old man surrounded by baskets of all shapes and sizes. It was Abel Karaim.

Though the day was warm and sunny, his head was covered with a fur cap, from under which streamed his white hair, and his beard spread like a fan over his breast. The sun fell upon the small and thin face, scarcely visible from under his hair, and the fur which fell over the shaggy eyebrows gave but little protection to the dim eyes blinking in the sunlight.

Close to him, slim and erect, stood Golda, with her corals encircling the slender neck, setting off the clear olive of her complexion, and her heavy tresses falling down her back. A few steps in front of these two stood long rows of carts full of grain, wood, and various country produce; between the carts bullocks and cows lowed, calves bleated, horses neighed and stamped, small brokers and horse-dealers flitted to and fro bargaining with the peasants. In this hubbub of voices, in midst of bargaining and quarrels, mixed with the shrill voices of women and squalling children, sounded the quavering voice of old Abel unweariedly at his task of reciting. The surging elements around did not distract him; on the contrary, they seemed to stimulate him, as his voice sounded louder and more distinct.

"When Moses descended from Mount Sinai, a great light shone from his face, and the people fell down on their faces and called out as in one voice: Moses, repeat to us the words of the Eternal. And a great calm came upon the earth and the heavens. They grew silent, the lightning ceased, and the wind fell. And Moses called the seventy elders of Israel, and when they surrounded him, as the stars surround the moon, he repeated to them the words of the Eternal."

At this moment two grave men, poorly dressed, came from the crowd and passed close by him.

"He is reciting again," said one.

"He is always doing so," said the other.

They smiled, but did not go further. An old woman and some younger people joined them. The woman stood listening and asked:

"What is it he is telling?"

"The history and the covenant of the Israelites," replied Golda.

The young people opened their mouths, the woman drew nearer, the men smiled, but all stood still and listened.

"When the people heard the commandments of the Lord, they called out as in one voice: We will do all that the Lord commands. And Moses erected twelve stones against the Mountain of Sinai, and said unto the people: Keep therefore the words of this covenant; your captains of your tribes, your elders, and your officers, with all the men of Israel."

"Your little ones, your wives, and the stranger that is in thy camp, from the hewer of thy wood unto the drawer of thy water."

"He says beautiful things, and speaks well," said one.

"And the hewer of thy wood and the drawer of thy water," repeated the two poorly dressed men as they raised their shining eyes to heaven. The woman, who had listened attentively, drew from her shabby gown a dirty handkerchief, and undoing one of the knots, deposited a big copper coin on Abel's knees.

A few more had joined the little group which surrounded Abel, Jews, Christians, and young people. These few had torn themselves from the noisy, haggling crowd, and listened to other words than those of roubles and kopecks—the sounds of the far past. It seemed almost as if Abel felt the attention of the people, and as if all these eyes upon him warmed his heart and stirred his memory. His eyes shone brighter from under the half-closed eyelids; the fur cap pushed at the back of his head, and the long white hair falling upon breast and shoulder, gave him the air of a half-blind bard who, with national songs, rouses and gladdens the spirit of the people. In a louder and steadier voice he went on:

"When the Israelites crossed the Jordan, Joshua erected two great stones, and wrote upon them the ten commandments. One half of the people rested under Mount Gerisim, the other half under Mount Ebal, and the voice spoke unto all men: He breaks the covenant of the Lord who worships false gods, he who does not honour his father and mother. He breaks the covenant who covets his neighbour's property and leads astray the blind. He breaks it who wrongs the stranger, the orphan, and the widow; he who putteth a lie into his brother's ear, and sayeth of the innocent, Let him die. And when the people of Israel heard it they called out, as if in one voice: All that thou commandest, we will do."

"Amen," murmured around Abel the voices which a short time before had haggled desperately over their small bargains. A peasant woman pushed through the little group, picked up one of the baskets and asked the price. Golda told her, after which the woman began to bargain; but Golda did not answer again, not because she did not want to, as rather that she did not hear the shrill voice any longer. Her eyes were fixed upon one point in the crowd, a hot blush suffused her features, and a half-childish, half-passionate smile played upon her lips. She saw Meir making his way through the crowd and coming near where she stood; but he did not see her. His face looked troubled and restless, and presently he disappeared within the precincts of the synagogue. This was almost as crowded as the market square, but not so noisy.

Meir went towards the dwelling of the Rabbi Todros; all the people were moving in the same direction. Close to the Rabbi's little hut the crowd was still denser; but there was no noise, no pushing, or eyes shining with the greediness of gain; a grave silence prevailed everywhere, interrupted only by timid whispers. Meir knew what brought the people here and where they came from. There were scarcely any inhabitants of Szybow amongst them, as these could always see the Rabbi and come to him for advice. They came mostly from the country around; some from far distant places. There was a slight sprinkling of merchants and well-to-do people, but the great bulk bore the stamp of poverty and hard work in their lean, patient faces, and upon their garments.

"Why should I go there?" said Meir to himself; "he will not listen to me now; but where else can I go?" he added after a while, and he again mixed with the crowd, which bore him onwards until he found himself before the wide-open door of the Rabbi's dwelling.

Beyond the door, in the entrance hall, people stood closely pressed together like a living and breathing wall; no other sound than their long-drawn breaths were audible. Meir tried to push his way through, which did not present much difficulty, for many of the poor people had been humble guests at Ezofowich's, and recognised Saul's grandson and made way for him. They did this in a quick, absent-minded way, their eyes being riveted on the room beyond; they stood on tip-toe, and whenever they caught a broken sentence, their faces glowed with happiness as if the honoured sage's words were balm for all the sorrows of their lives.

The interior of the room, which Meir beheld from the open door, presented a singular appearance. In the depth of it, between the wall and a table, sat Rabbi Todros in his usual worn-out garments with his cap pushed to the back of his head. The upper part of his body bent forward; he sat perfectly motionless except for his eyes, which roamed along the people, who looked at him humbly and beseechingly. There was a small space between the sage and those who stood before him, which none dared to cross without his permission. The whole scene was lighted up by the rays of the sun streaming in through the window, on one side; on the other by the lurid and fitful flames in the fire-place. Near the latter crouched the melamed, feeding the fire with fresh fuel and putting various herbs into steaming vessels.

Besides the function of apothecary he had also the office of crier. He called out the names of the people who, according to his opinion, were entitled to appear before the master.

He now raised his thick forefinger towards the entrance, and called out:

"Shimshel, the innkeeper."

The summoned man whose name, Samson, time and custom had transformed into Shimshel, did not in the least resemble his namesake, the Samson of history. He was slender and red-haired, and bent almost to the ground before the Rabbi.

"Who greets the Wise Man bows before the greatness of the Creator," he said in a timid, shaking voice. It was not only his voice which trembled, but all his limbs, and his blue eyes roamed wildly about the room.

Isaak Todros sat like a statue. His eyes looked piercingly at the little red-haired man before him, who, in his terror, had lost his tongue altogether.

"Well?" said the sage, after a lengthy pause.

Shimshel raised his shoulders almost to his ears and began:

"Nassi! let a ray of your wisdom enlighten my darkness. I have committed a great sin, and my soul trembles while I am confessing it before you. Nassi! I am a most unfortunate man; my wife Ryfka has lost my soul for ever, unless you, oh Rabbi, tell me how to make it clean again."

Here the poor penitent choked again, but gathering courage, proceeded:

"Nassi! I and my wife Ryfka and the children sat down, last Friday, to the Sabbath feast. On one table there was a dish of meat, on the other a bowl of milk which my wife had boiled for the younger children. My wife ladled out the milk for the children, when her hand shook and a drop of milk fell upon the meat."

"Ai! Ai! stupid woman, what had she done! She had made the meat unclean."

"Well, and what did you do with the meat?" The questioned man's head sank upon his breast, and he stammered:

"Rabbi, I ate from it, and so did my wife and children."

The Rabbi's eyes flashed with anger.

"Why did you not throw the unclean food on the refuse heap? Why did you make your mouth and the mouths of your family unclean?" shouted the Rabbi.

Shimshel choked again, and stopped. The sage, still motionless, asked:

"Nassi! I am very poor, and keep a small inn that brings but little profit. I have six children, an old father who lives with me, and two orphaned grandchildren, whose parents died. Rabbi it is difficult to find food for so many mouths, and we have meat only once a week. Kosher meat is very dear, so I buy three pounds every week, and eleven people have to keep up their strength, on it. Rabbi! I knew we should have nothing during the week, except bread and onions and cucumber. I was loth to throw that meat away and so ate from it, and allowed my family to eat from it."

Thus complained and confessed the poor Samson, and the master listened with clouded brows.

Then he spoke, transfixing the sinner with angry eyes. He explained in a long and learned speech the origin of the law of clean and unclean food. How great and wise men had written many commentaries about it, and how great the sin of a man was who dared to eat a piece of meat upon which a drop of milk had fallen.

"Your sin is abominable in the sight of the Lord," he thundered at the humble penitent. "For the sake of greediness you have broken the covenant which Jehovah made with his people, and transgressed one of the six hundred and thirteen commandments which every true Israelite is bound to keep. You deserve to be cursed even as Elisha cursed the mocking children, and Joshua the town of Jerico. But since it was only your body which sinned, whilst the spirit remained faithful, and you came to me and humbled and confessed yourself, I will forgive you, under the condition that you and your family abstain from meat and milk during four weeks, and the money saved thereby be distributed among the poor. And after four weeks, when your souls will be clean again from the abomination, you may dwell in peace and piety among your brethren Israelites."

"Say everybody Amen."

"Amen," called the people within the room and without, and those who pressed their eager faces against the window.

The little red-haired Samson, relieved of the burden that had oppressed his conscience, though otherwise burdened with a four-weeks' fast, murmured his thanks and retreated towards the entrance.

Reb Moshe again raised his finger and called out:

"Reb Gerson, melamed."

At his summons a round-backed, middle-sized man, with shaggy hair and clouded mien, appeared. He was a colleague of Reb Moshe, a teacher from a small town, where he enlightened the Israelitish youths. He stood in the middle of the room, holding a heavy book with both hands, After greeting the master, he began in these words:

"Rabbi! my soul has been in trouble, Two days ago my children read that evening prayers ought to be said until the end of the first watch. The children asked me: 'What is the first watch?' I remained mute, for I did not know how to answer, and I come to you, Rabbi, for a ray of wisdom to enlighten my mind. Tell me, oh Rabbi, what are the watches according to which every Israelite has to regulate his prayers. Where are they, so that I may give an answer to the children?"

The round-backed man stopped, and all eyes rested with excited curiosity upon the sage, who, without changing his position, answered:

"What should it be but the angels' watch? And where do they watch? They watch before the throne of the Eternal, when the day declines and night approaches. The angels are divided into three choirs. The first choir stands before the throne and keeps watch till midnight. Then is the time to say evening prayers. The second comes at midnight and keeps watch until dawn; when you see the sky turn rosy-red and pale-blue, the third choir arrives, and then it is time to say morning prayers."

The master stopped, and a low murmur of admiration and rapture was heard among the crowd. But the melamed did not retire yet; his eyes fixed upon his book he began anew:

"Rabbi, give me another ray of wisdom to carry back to my scholars. Near our little town lies the estate of a great lord. Sometimes the children go there and hear all sorts of things. Once, coming thence, they told in town that the origin of thunder had been explained to them. They were told that thunder comes from heaven when two clouds meet and give out a force they called electricity. I never heard of it before: is it true that such a force exists and that it originates thunder?"

During Reb Gerson's speech the Rabbi's face twitched with suppressed impatience, and he smiled scornfully.

"It is not true!" he exclaimed. "There is no such force, and not from there comes thunder. When the Roman emperor destroyed the Temple, and dispersed the people of Israel, there was thunder. Where did it come from? It came from Jehovah's breast, who wept aloud over the destruction of his people. And now the Lord weeps over his people, and his moans are heard upon earth as thunder; his tears fall into the seas and make them heave and rise, and shake the earth to its foundations, and send forth fire and smoke. I have told you now whence come thunder and earthquakes. Go in peace and repeat to your children what I have told you."

With a humble bow and thanks the melamed retired into the crowd. At the same time from beyond the door the loud wail of a child became audible.

Reb Moshe called out:

"Haim, dairy farmer from Kamionka, and his wife Malka."

From the crowd came a man and a woman. Both looked pale and troubled The woman carried a sick child in her arms. They knelt before him, and holding up to him the child, wasted with disease, asked for his help and advice. Todros bent tenderly over the fragile little body and looked long and attentively at it. Reb Moshe, squatting on the floor, looked at the master for orders, mixing and stirring the decoctions. In this way, one by one, came the people to their teacher, sage, physician, prophet almost, plied him with questions and asked for advice. A troubled husband brought his comely, buxom wife, and asked for judgment by help of a certain water, called the water of jealousy. If the wife be guilty of infidelity, the efficacy of the water is believed to cause death; if innocent, it will enhance her beauty and give her health. Another man asked what he was to do if the time for prayers came during a journey and he could not turn his face to the east, because the storm and dust would blind his eyes. A great many came crying and bewailing their miserable lives, and asked the sage to look into the future and tell them how long it would be till the Messiah arrived. The greater part of the people did not want anything, asked neither questions nor came for advice; they simply wanted to see the revered master, breathe the same air with him, and fill their souls with the words that dropped from his lips, and see the light of his countenance.

It was evident that Isaak Todros felt and appreciated his high position. He attended to all their wants with the greatest gravity, zeal, and patience. He explained, and put the people right in points of law, inflicted penances upon sinners, gave physic to the sick, advice to the ignorant—without changing his position—only fixing his either stern or thoughtful eyes upon those who came to him. Several times when the people wailed and complained, entreating him to foretell the coming of the Messiah, his dark eyes grew misty. He loved those who came to him with their troubles and felt for them. Big beads of perspiration stood upon his forehead, and his breath came hard and fast; still he went on with his ministrations, in the deep conviction that he was doing his duty, with a fervent faith and belief in all that he was achieving and teaching, and the disinterestedness of a man who wants nothing for himself, except the little black hut, a scanty meal, and the tattered garments he had worn for many years.

In the meanwhile a man passed rapidly through the court of the synagogue, looking around him as if in search of something or somebody. It was Ber, Saul's son-in-law. He looked at the people crowding round the Rabbi's dwelling; at last his eyes lighted on Meir, and he grasped him by the sleeve of his coat.

The young man awoke, as from a trance, and looked round absently at his uncle.

"Come with me," whispered Ber.

"I cannot go away," said Meir, in an equally low voice. "I have important business with the Rabbi, and shall wait till all the people have left so that I may speak with him."

"Come away," repeated Ber, and he took the youth by the shoulder.

Meir shook him off impatiently, but Ber repeated:

"Come with me now; you can return later when the people have gone—that is, if you wish it, but I do not think you will."

Both left the crowded hut. Ber walked swiftly and silently, leading his companion to a quiet part of the precincts where, under the shadow of the walls of Bet-ha-Midrash, nobody could overhear, their conversation.

Meir leaned against the wall. Ber stood silently before him, looking intently at his young kinsman.

Ber's outward appearance did not present any striking features; many would pass him without taking particular notice, yet the student of human nature would find in him a character worth knowing. He was forty years old, always carefully dressed, yet according to old customs. His delicately moulded features and blue eyes had a dreamy and apathetic expression, which only lighted up under the excitement of business speculations. A deep yearning after something, and carefully suppressed dreams and stifled aspirations gave to his mouth an expression of calm resignation. Sometimes, when the ghost of the past appeared before him, two deep furrows appeared across his forehead. It was evident that some fierce conflicts had raged under that quiet exterior, and left wounds and scars which now and then would remind him painfully of the past.

He now stood opposite the young man whom he had dragged away from the crowd almost by force.

"Meir," he said at last, "an hour ago your grandfather had a long talk with his son, Abraham. He left his visitors on purpose to speak with him, and bade me to be present at their conversation. Rest in peace, Meir; your uncle will have no hand in the vile deed which will be perpetrated."

"Will be perpetrated?" interrupted Meir passionately. "Not if I can prevent it."

Ber smiled bitterly

"How can you prevent it? I guessed you wanted to speak about it to the Rabbi, and I went after you to warn you and save you from the consequences of such a step. You thought that if you put the case before him, he would rise in anger and forbid any one to do such an infamous deed If he did that they would obey him; but he will not."

"Why should he not?" exclaimed Meir.

"Because he does not understand anything about it. If you questioned him about clean or unclean food, whether it was allowed to snuff a candle on the Sabbath, or gird the loins with pocket-handkerchiefs, he would answer readily enough. He would tell you whether to bless first the wine or first the bread, or how the spirits transmigrate from one body to another, how many Sefirots emanate from Jehovah and how to transpose the sacred letters in order to discover fresh mysteries, or about the arrival of the Messiah. But if you began to speak to him about distilleries, taxes, estates, and things in connection with them, he would open his eyes widely and would listen to you like a man struck with deafness, because these things are to him like a sealed letter. For him, beyond his sacred books, the world is like a great wilderness."

Meir bent his head.

"I feel the truth of what you say; yet if I asked him whether it be right for the sake of gain to wrong an innocent man?"

Ber answered:

"He would ask you whether the innocent man were an Edomite or an Israelite."

Meir looked intently at the sky, thinking deeply, and evidently puzzled.

"Ber," he said at last, "do you hate the Edomites?"

The questioned man shook his head.

"Hatred is like poison to the human mind. Once, when I was young, I even thought of going to them and entreating them to help us. I am glad now that I did not do it and remained with my own people, but I have no ill-feeling towards them."

"And I have none," said Meir. "Do you think Kamionker hates them?"

"No," said her decidedly. "He makes use of them. They are his milch cows. He may despise them, because they do not look after their business but allow themselves to be cheated."

"And Todros; does he hate them?" questioned Meir.

"Yes," said Ber, very emphatically; "Todros hates them. And why does he hate them? Because he does not live in the Present; he still lives in the Past, when the Roman emperor besieged Jerusalem and drove the Israelites out of Palestine. He breathes, thinks, and feels as if he were living two thousand years ago. He does not know that from the time of his ancestor, Halevi Todros, other wise people have lived, and that times are changed, and that those who hated and persecuted us once have since then stretched out their hands in peace and goodwill. How can he know anything? He never left Szybow since he was born; never read anything but the books left by his forefathers; has never seen or spoken to any one out of Israel."

Meir listened, and nodded his head in sign that he agreed with his companion.

"I see that it is of no use at all going to him," he said, thoughtfully.

"It is not," said Ber; "therefore I came in search of you. He will not prevent Kamionker from wronging the lord of Kamionka, who represents to him the people of Ai, with whom Joshua went to war, or the Roman nation who destroyed the Temple, or the Spaniards who, five hundred years ago, burned and despoiled the Jews. He would not even listen to you, and would denounce you as an infidel. If he has not brought his hand down upon you, it is owing to the love and respect the people bear towards your grandfather, Saul. If you accused Kamionker before him, Kamionker would set him, against you, as already does Reb Moshe. Meir! be careful! there are rocks ahead. Save yourself before it is too late."

Meir did not reply to the warning.

"Ber," he said, "I am sure that man, blind and revengeful as he is, possesses a great soul. Look how patiently he sits night and day over his books, how full of pity and compassion are his eyes when he listens to the poor people and comforts them, and does not want anything for himself. Ber! his faith is so sincere!"

Ber smiled at his words, and turned his dreamy eyes to heaven.

"You speak thus about the Rabbi, Meir; what do you say about the people who, in the midst of misery, hunger, and humiliation still thirst for wisdom and knowledge. Never mind whether it is the true wisdom or true knowledge, but look how they raise themselves above their narrow lives by their faith and reverence for their Wise Men. Do you think that this narrow, bigoted, greedy people have a great soul?"

"Israel has a great soul, and I love it more than my life, my happiness, and my peace." He stopped for a minute, then grasped Ber by the shoulder. "I know what is wanting in Todros to make him a great man, and what is wanting in the Israelitish people to show their greatness to the world. They ought to come out of the Past, in which they persist to dwell, into the Present. They want Sar-Ha-Olam, the angel of knowledge, to touch them with his wings."

Whilst the young man spoke thus, his face glowing with excitement, Ber looked at him thoughtfully.

"When I look at you, Meir, and listen to you, I see myself as I was at your age. I felt the same anger, the same grief, and I wanted—"

He stopped, and passed his hand over his brow, marked with two deep lines, and his eyes looked far away as if into the future.

Anybody seeing their animated faces and lively gesticulation as they stood near the wall of the Bet-ha-Midrash, would have concluded that they were discussing bargains. What else did people like them live or care for? Yet they think and suffer, but nobody guesses it or wishes to penetrate the mystery of their thoughts. It is like the depth of an unfathomable sea—its depths unknown even to those who are perishing in it.

"Come home with me," said Ber. "Your grandfather will soon be sitting down to dinner with his guests and be displeased at not seeing you at table. There is already a storm brewing for you, because Mistress Hannah has returned the betrothal gifts, broken off the engagement, and given Saul a piece of her mind in presence of all the visitors."

Meir carelessly waved his bands.

"I wished for it," he said. "I shall ask my grandfather's pardon. I can only think about one thing now: where to go next."

Ber looked wonderingly at the speaker. "How obstinate you are," he remarked. They were near the entrance gate when Ber suddenly stopped.

"Meir, whatever you do, don't go to the government authorities."

Meir passed his hand over his forehead.

"I thought of that," he said, "but I am afraid. If I reveal the whole truth, they will not only punish Kamionker, but also those poor wretches he tempted with his money. Poor people, ignorant people, I am sorry for them—"

He suddenly paused, and looked fixedly in one direction. An elegant carriage, drawn by four horses, crossed the market-square. Meir pointed at the carriage, which stopped before Jankiel Kamionker's inn, and his eyes opened wider, for a sudden idea took hold of his mind.

"Ber!" he exclaimed, "do you see him? That is the lord of Kamionka."

The sun was declining towards the west when, in the porch of Saul's house, stood a group of men gaily conversing among themselves. They were Saul's visitors who, after having feasted at his hospitable board, were now saying good-bye, and pressing the old man's hand, thanking him for his kind reception; then, by twos and threes, they mounted the waiting carts, their faces still turned towards their venerable host, who stood in the porch.

In the sitting-room the women, with the help of the servants, were busy clearing the table, and putting away the dinner service.

The fair was also drawing to an end; the carts grew fewer by degrees, so did the people upon the square. All the noise and liveliness concentrated itself now in the several inns where the people were drinking and dancing. Jankiel Kamionker's inn was by far the most frequented and noisiest, No wonder.

The crafty dealer rented several distilleries and some seventy inns about the country, and ruled over a small army of subtenants and inn-keepers, of the Samson kind, who bought meat once a week, and starved on other days. They depended entirely on Kamionker, who, if he did not treat them generously they, on their side, were not generous towards the peasants, whom they plied with drink. Through his subordinates, Kamionker held thousands of peasants' families under his thumb. Therefore they all came to his inn. He did not himself look after his humble customers, but left them to his wife and his two strong and ugly daughters, who carried bottles and glasses round the tables, together with salted herrings, and different kinds of bread. Nobody could have guessed, seeing the faded woman, shabbily dressed, moving in that stifling atmosphere of alcohol and human breath, that she was the wife of one of the wealthiest men in the country.

Neither did the man in his musty garments who stood humbly at the door of the guest's room, look like a great capitalist and financier.

He stood near the threshold, and his guest, the lord of Kamionka, reclined in an easy-chair smoking a cigar. The young gentleman was tall and handsome; his dark hair fell upon a white forehead, though the other part of his face was slightly browned by the sun. He had a good-natured and thoughtful face.

The gay playfulness with which his eyes twinkled was evidently caused by the sight of the nimble Jew, whose body seemed to be made of india rubber, and the two corkscrew curls behind his ears of a fiery red, seemed to dance to and fro with his every motion.

Then he became thoughtful again, because the red-haired Jew spoke about important business. The young nobleman did not know anything about the man himself with whom he dealt.

He was to him a Jew, and the tenant of his distillery. Thus he might be also a prominent member of a powerfully organised body, a greatly respected and pious person, a mystic deeply versed in sacred knowledge, and finally a man who, in those dirty, freckled hands, held the entangled threads of many Jewish and Christian families; of all this the lord of Kamionka knew nothing. Therefore it never occurred to him to invite the Jew to draw nearer or sit down. Reb Jankiel likewise did not think of such a thing. He had been accustomed to stand humbly, as his fathers had done before him; nevertheless, his pale blue eyes were full of malice whenever the young gentleman turned his look elsewhere and could not see him. It may be Reb Jankiel did not realise his own feelings, yet he could not help seeing the contrast between his present humble attitude and the proud position he occupied in his own community. Such feelings, though ill-defined, if united to a bad heart, could produce no other results than hatred and even crime.

"You bore me, Jankiel, with your everlasting bargains and agreements," said the nobleman carelessly, twisting his cigar between his fingers. "I stopped at your inn for a few minutes to rest my horses, and you get me into business discussions at once."

Reb Jankiel bowed nimbly.

"I beg the gracious lord's pardon," he said smilingly, "but the distillery will be starting work next month, and I should like to renew the agreement."

"Of course you will be my tenant, as you have been these last three years; but there is plenty of time."

"It is better to arrange everything beforehand. I shall have to buy a hundred head of cattle for fattening purposes, and I cannot afford the outlay unless I am sure of the tenancy. If the gracious lord permits, I shall come to-morrow to write the agreement."

The young nobleman rose.

"Very well, come to-morrow, but not in the morning, as I shall not be at home."

"The gracious lord thinks of spending the night in the neighbourhood?" asked Jankiel, his face twitching nervously.

"Yes, in the near neighbourhood," answered the nobleman, and was going to say something more when the door behind Jankiel's back opened gently, and a young Jew, with a pale face and burning eyes, entered boldly.

At the sight of the newcomer Jankiel drew back instinctively, and an expression of terror came into his face.

"What do you want here?" he asked in a choking voice.

The nobleman glanced carelessly at the young Jew.

"Do you want to speak to me, my friend?" he asked.

"Yes, with the gracious lord," said the newcomer, and he advanced a few steps nearer. But Jankiel barred him the way.

"Do not permit him to come nearer, gracious lord, and do not speak with him. He is a bad man, and interferes with everybody."

The lord of Kamionka waved the frantic Jankiel aside.

"Let him speak if he has any business with me. Why should I not speak with him?"

Saying this, he looked with evident curiosity at the youthful face of the intruder.

"The gracious lord does not know me," began the young man.

"And why should the gracious lord know such a good-for-nothing fellow?" interrupted Jankiel. But the lord of Kamiorika bade him be silent.

"I have seen you, gracious lord, at my grandfather's, Saul, whose son, Raphael, buys your corn."

"So you are Saul's grandson?"

"Yes, gracious lord, I am his grandson."

"And the son of Raphael Ezofowich?"

"No; I am the son of Benjamin, the youngest of Saul's sons, who died long ago."

Meir did not speak Polish very fluently, yet he made himself understood. He had heard it spoken by those who came to deal with members of his family, and had learned it of the Edomite, who had also taught him to read and write.

"Did Raphael send you to me?"

"No; I came on my own account."

He seemed to collect his thoughts, then boldly raised his head.

"I came to warn you, gracious lord. Bad people are preparing a great misfortune for you—"

Jankiel rushed forward, and, with outstretched arms, placed himself between the two.

"Will you hold your tongue," he shouted. "Why do you come here to disturb the gracious lord with your foolish talk?" and, turning towards the nobleman, he said:

"He is a madman and a villain."

It was not the lord now who waved Jankiel but Meir himself. With heightened colour, breathing quickly, he pushed him away, said:

"He will not allow me to speak, but I will say quickly what I have to say. Do not trust him, gracious lord; he is a bad man, and your enemy. He wants to do you a grievous harm—guard yourself and guard your house like the apple of your eye. I am not an informer; therefore I came to say it in his presence, and warn the gracious lord. He will revenge himself upon me, but that does not matter. I am doing my duty, as every true Israelite ought to do, for it is written: 'The stranger that dwelleth with you shall be unto you as one born among you,' and it is further said: 'If thou remainest silent, upon thy head be the woes of Israel.'"

The young nobleman looked at the speaker with some interest, but his eyes twinkled. The quotation from Scripture, beautiful in itself, but easily marred by faulty pronunciation, appeared more ridiculous than interesting.

"I perceive that old Saul has a grandson who is well grounded in the Scriptures, and has a prophetic gift; but tell me clearly, and distinctly, my young prophet, what misfortune is threatening me, and why this honest Jankiel, who has been dealing with me for years, has suddenly become my enemy?"

Jankiel stood close to the easy-chair, and, bending closer to the lord, whispered smilingly:

"He is mad. He always foretells all sorts of terrible things, and he hates me because I laugh at him."

"Oh! then I shall not laugh at him and make him hate me," said the nobleman gaily; and turning towards Meir, he asked: "Tell me what is the misfortune that threatens me. If you tell me the truth, you will be doing a good deed, and I shall be grateful for it."

"You ask me a difficult thing, gracious lord; I thought you would understand from a few words. It is hard for me to speak more clearly," and he passed his hand over his brow which was wet with perspiration. "Promise me, gracious lord, that if I speak out, my words will fall like a stone into water. Promise me to make use of my information, but not to go to law."

The nobleman looked amused, yet curious.

"I give you my word of honour that your secret will be safe with me."

Meir's burning eyes turned towards Jankiel, his whole frame shook, he opened his mouth—but the words refused to come. Jankiel, seeing his emotion which momentarily deprived him of his tongue, suddenly grasped him by the waist and dragging him towards the door, shouted:

"Why do you enter my house and disturb my honoured guest by your foolish talk? The gracious lord is my guest, has known me for years; there! off with you at once."

Meir tried to get out of Jankiel's hands, and though he was the taller and stronger, Jankiel was nimbler, and despair redoubled his energy. Struggling and panting, both rolled towards the door, and the young gentleman looked at the struggle with an amused expression. Meir's pale face towering above Jankiel's red head suddenly flushed.

"Do you laugh at me, gracious lord?" he said brokenly.

"You do not know how difficult it is for me to speak, but guard your house from fire!"

At these last words he disappeared through the door, which the panting Jankiel slammed after him.

The lord of Kamionka still smiled. The struggle between the nimble, red-haired Jankiel and the tall young Jew looked very funny. During the battle the long coat tails had flapped about like wings, and Jankiel, in his desperate efforts to get rid of the intruder, had performed the most extraordinary acrobatic feats. It was a ridiculous scene altogether—the more ridiculous as the combatants belonged to a race at which it was an old, time-honoured custom to laugh. How could the young nobleman understand the deeper meaning of the play enacted before him? He saw before him a young Jew who spoke in broken Polish, the grandson of a merchant, and who would be, in his turn, a merchant. That he was a noble spirit in rebellion against everything mean and dishonest, a despairing spirit longing for freedom and wider knowledge, that coming to him as he did he had done an heroic action that would destroy his whole future—of all this the nobleman had not the slightest suspicion.

After a short pause he looked at Jankiel, and asked:

"Explain to me now; what did it all mean? What kind of a man is he really?"

"What kind of man?" said Jankiel, who seemingly had regained his composure. "It was a stupid affair, and I beg the gracious lord's pardon that it should have happened to him under my roof. He is a madman and very spiteful. He went mad from mere spitefulness."

"Hm!" said the young gentleman. "He did not look like a madman. He has a handsome face and an intelligent one."

"He is not altogether mad—" began Jankiel, but the lord interrupted him.

"He is the grandson of Saul Ezofowich?" he asked, thoughtfully.

"He is Saul's grandson; but his grandfather does not like him."

"Whether he likes him or not, I could scarcely ask his grandfather about him."

"On the contrary, ask him, gracious lord, what he thinks of his grandson," exclaimed Jankiel triumphantly. "Ask his uncles; I will go and bring his uncle Abraham."

"No need," said the nobleman shortly.

He rose, and looked thoughtful, then fixed his eyes upon Jankiel's face.

Jankiel boldly met his searching glance. "Listen, Jankiel," said the lord of Kamionka, "you are a man of years, a respectable merchant, and father of a large family. I ought to trust you more than a young man whom I have seen to-day for the first time, and who may be wrong in the head for anything I know; but there must be something at the bottom of what he tells me. I must get some information about him."

"The gracious lord can get that information very easily," said Jankiel, shrugging his shoulders contemptuously.

The owner of Kamionka thought a little, and then asked:

"Is that celebrated Rabbi of yours in town?"

"Where should he be?" said Jankiel. "He has never been out of the town during his life."

"A steady man, your Rabbi," said the nobleman, reaching for his hat. "Now, Jankiel, show me the way, and, if I do not hear anything new, I shall at least have seen and spoken with that celebrated man."

Jankiel opened the door for his distinguished guest, and followed him into the square, which was now almost deserted. Half-way across they met Eli Witebski, whom the lord of Kamionka greeted affably. By his manner and appearance the wealthy merchant came a little nearer to the civilised sphere in which the landowner moved himself.

"Has the gracious lord come to town on business?" asked Eli.

"No; I am only passing."

"And where might the gracious lord be going now?"

"To see your Rabbi, Witebski."

Witebski looked astonished.

"To see the Rabbi! And what business can the noble lord have with the Rabbi?"

"It is a ridiculous story, Witebski. There, tell me, do you know Saul Ezofowich's grandson?"

"Which of them?" asked Eli. "Saul has many grandsons."

"What is his name?" asked the nobleman, half-turning his head toward Jankiel.

"Meir, Meir, that worthless fellow!"

Witebski nodded his head as a sign that he understood.

"Well," he said, with an indulgent smile, "I would not quite call him a worthless fellow. He is young, and will mend; he is hot-headed though."

"What! a little wrong here?" laughed the gentleman, pointing to his forehead.

"Well," said Eli, "he is not mad, but rash and impulsive, and just now had done a very foolish thing, and put me into a most awkward position. Ai! Ai! what trouble and vexation I had through him, and shall have still—"

"Oh, that's it!" said the lord. "He is a kind, of half-witted mischief-maker, who does not know what he wants, and gets in everybody's way?"

"The noble lord has guessed it," said Eli, but he added at once. "He is very young, and will yet be a decent man."

"Which means that he is not a decent man at present? I see."

"This way, please," said Jankiel, showing the gates of the synagogue court.

"And where does your Rabbi live?"

Kamionker pointed to the little black hut close to the synagogue.

"What, in that little cottage?"

And he went towards it with Jankiel alone, as Witebski, guessing that some unpleasant business had brought them hither, directly took his leave, and, bowing politely, left them.

The door of the hut was already closed, but a little group of worshippers still lingered at the open window. It was very silent within; but the Rabbi did not rest, he never rested, as the few hours spent in broken sleep could scarcely be called by that name. He was bending over his books, which he knew by heart, but still pondered over, and of which he strove with his whole mind and soul to penetrate the mystery.

Reb Moshe rested, but not altogether. He sat in the corner of the fireplace, his knees drawn up to his chin, and his hands buried in his beard. He looked fixedly at the Master, not unlike a fanatic savage worshipping his fetish, or as a scientist watches the universe. The eyes of Reb Moshe expressed deep veneration, wonder, and utter devotion.

Suddenly the door opened, and upon the threshold stood the lord of Kamionka who, turning to Jankiel, said:

"Remain outside; I will speak alone with the Rabbi."

Saying this, he stooped in order to enter the low doorway, and then looked around.

Opposite him, near the wall, sat a man with a mass of coal-black hair, slightly tinged with gray, about him a worn-out garment, and with a yellow, wrinkled face, who, looked at the intruder with amazed and piercing eyes. In a far corner squatted another man, only dimly visible; upon him the young gentleman bestowed only a passing glance. It did not even enter his mind that the man in the tattered clothes and with the piercing eyes could be the celebrated Rabbi, whose fame, spreading over the Jewish communities, had sent a faint echo into the Christian world.

He approached the man very politely. "Could I see the Rabbi of Szybow for a few minutes?"

There was no answer.

The man sitting near the wall craned his long yellow neck, and opened his eyes and mouth wider.

The sudden amazement, or perhaps other feelings, gave him the appearance of stupidity, almost idiotism.

No wonder that Isaak Todros looked like one turned to stone at the sight of the nobleman standing before him. He was the first Edomite who had ever crossed his threshold—the first he had ever seen closely, and the first time he had heard the sonorous language, which sounded strange and unintelligible to his ears. If the angel Matatron, the heavenly patron and defender of Israel, or even the foremost of the evil spirits had stood before him, he would have been less appalled: with supernatural beings he was in constant though not direct communication. He studied them—their nature and their functions. But this tall, stately man, in his abominable garment which reached barely to his knees, with the white, effeminate forehead and unintelligible language, who was he? Was he a Philistine? a cruel Roman, or perhaps a Spaniard—one of those that murdered the famous Abrabanel family, and drove his ancestor Todros out of Spain?

The lord waited a few minutes, and not getting an answer, repeated the question:

"Could I speak with the Rabbi of Szybow?"

At the sound of the somewhat raised voice the squatting figure in the corner moved and rose slowly. Reb Moshe, with open mouth and stupid, glaring eyes, came into the light, and in his hoarse voice uttered the monosyllable "Hah!"

At the sight of the man dressed in such primitive and now-a-days unseen simplicity, the lord's face twitched all over with suppressed merriment.

"My good sir," he said, turning to the melamed, "is that man deaf and dumb? I asked him twice whether I could see the Rabbi of Szybow, and got no answer."

Saying this, he pointed at Todros, who, craning his neck in the melamed's direction, asked:

"Was sagd er? Was will er?" (What does he say? What does he want?)

Reb Moshe, instead of answering, opened his mouth still wider. At the same time murmurs and whispers became audible from the open window, and the young gentleman, looking in that direction, saw a cluster of faces peeping into the room: the faces looked inquisitive, and a little frightened. He turned towards them and asked:

"Does the Rabbi of Szybow live here?"

"He does," said some voices.

"Where is he, then?"

A great many fingers pointed at the bench near the wall.

"What! That man is your wise and celebrated Rabbi?"

The faces framed in the open window radiated with a peculiar blissfulness, and nodded.

The young man made an heroic effort to control his risible muscles, and with twinkling eyes he pointed at the melamed.

"And who is this?"

"He is the melamed," said several voices; "a very wise and pious man."

The nobleman turned again to Todros.

"Reverend sir," he said, "could I speak alone with you for a few minutes?"

Todros remained silent as the grave, but his breath went faster and his eyes grew fiercer.

"Mr. Melamed," said the nobleman to the barefooted man in the long coarse shirt, "perhaps this is a day when your Rabbi is not allowed to speak?"

"Hah?" asked Reb Moshe drawlingly. The nobleman, half-amused, half-angry, turned towards the people.

"Why do they not answer?"

There was a momentary silence. The faces looked perplexedly at each other. One of them at last said:

"They only understand the Jewish language." The owner of Kamionka looked at them in open-eyed amazement; he could scarcely believe that he heard aright.

"What! You don't mean to say they do not understand the language of the country they live in?"

"Well, they do not understand it."

There was some indefined resentment in the voice that said that.

At this moment Isaak Todros drew himself up, and raising both arms above his head, began to speak quickly:

"And a day will arrive when the Messiah, who sleeps in Paradise, will wake up and descend to the earth. Then a great war will spread over the world. Israel will stand up against Edom and Ishmael, until Edom and Ishmael will fall at his feet like shattered cedars."

His gestures were at once solemn and threatening, his eyes blazing, and catching his breath, he repeated again:

"Edom and Ishmael will lie at the feet of Israel like broken cedars, and the thunderbolt of the Lord will fall upon them and crush them to powder."

It was now the Edomite's turn to look astonished, for he did not understand a word. He looked not unlike a tall, stately cedar as he stood there, but not like one that could be easily crushed to powder. His face was rippling over with laughter, which he carefully tried to suppress.

"What does he say?" he asked the people at the window.

There was no answer. All eyes were riveted upon the sage, and on the melamed's face there was an expression of ecstatic rapture.

"My good people, tell me what he said," repeated the nobleman.

A deep voice, as if in sarcastic retribution, answered with another question.

"Did the gracious lord not understand?"

This ingenuous question put an end to the young man's self-control, and he burst out into a peal of laughter and turned towards the door.

"Savages!" he murmured to himself, and he still laughed as he crossed the precincts, and the people who crowded round the Rabbi's window looked after him with astonished and deeply-offended eyes. The young man laughed, tickled by the ludicrous aspect of the whole scene; yet under his apparent merriment there was an under-current of resentment and anger, that the Wise Men of Israel should have shown themselves to him like savages, who did not even speak the language of the country whose air they breathed, and that had nourished them for many centuries. The people around the Rabbi's hut followed him with looks of displeasure almost amounting to hatred, because he had blasphemed what they loved and revered beyond anything. Poor sages of Israel with their worshippers! Poor Edomite laughing at the sage and his worshippers! But poorest of all, the country, the sons of which after journeying together for so many centuries do not understand each other's heart and language.

At the gate of the precincts Jankiel Kamionker met the young nobleman.

"Well, Jankiel," he said, "you have indeed a wise and learned Rabbi."

Jankiel did not reply to this, but began at once to speak about the agreement and the Kamionka distillery. He spoke glibly and easily, and did not appear to remember what had occurred or refer to it. Neither did the lord of Kamionka, upon whom the whole scene had left an impression of astonishment and amusement. The young prophet, and Jankiel with his red curls trying to evict him; the Rabbi, who only spoke the Jewish language, and his companion in the wonderful costume: it was as good as a play. How his friends would enjoy his description; how the good-natured Sir Andrew would laugh, and his daughter, the beautiful Hedwiga, of whom he thought night and day as the believer in his paradise, would smile!

Thinking of her he jumped into the carriage, and looking at the west, he exclaimed:

"How long you have kept me!"

He nodded to Jankiel and called to the coachman:

"Drive on."

The four grays and the light carriage carried him swiftly through the town till he disappeared in a cloud of golden dust. In the western sky the red clouds died gradually away, and the transparent dusk of an August evening enveloped the town and darkened the sitting-room in the Ezofowich house. Loud and angry cries had reverberated in that usually peaceful household. The shrillest and angriest among them was that of Reb Jankiel, who abused all the members of the family one after the other, who answered either angrily or quietly according to their different characters. After that, the accusing and threatening man, shaking with fury, or perhaps terror, had rushed out of the house towards the Rabbi's dwelling; and those who remained behind sat silent and motionless, as if riveted to their chairs by their angry and perplexed feelings.

Saul sat on the sofa with his head sunk upon his breast, his hands lying motionless upon his knees, and sighed loudly and heavily. Around him sat on chairs Raphael, Abraham, and Ber. The wives of Raphael and Ber, the much-respected and beloved women, entered quietly and sat down behind their husbands. In a corner of the room, not noticed by any one, sat young Haim, Abraham's son and Meir's devoted friend.

It was Saul who interrupted the silence.

"Where is he gone to?"—meaning Jankiel.

"He is gone to denounce him before the Rabbi," said Abraham.

"He will bring Meir before the ecclesiastical tribunal," said Raphael.

Saul rocked himself and moaned aloud:

"Ai! ai! my poor head! Did I live to see a grandson of mine brought up to judgement like a thief or robber?"

"It is as informer he will appear before the judges," said Abraham swiftly and passionately.

"Something must be done with Meir, father."

"Think of it and tell us what to do with him. Things cannot remain as they are. He will ruin us and our sons and bring shame upon the whole family. Father! people used to say that it was always an Ezofowich who tried to undermine the faith of Israel: that the house of Todros and the house of Ezofowich are like two rivers than run in opposite directions, but meet now and then, and struggle to see which is the stronger, and to push the other underground. This talk had subsided, people began to forget, till Meir stirred it up again. Something must be done. Think of it, father, and we will do as you command us."

Two red spots appeared on Saul's face.

"What is to be done with him?" he asked in a voice that sounded like a smothered sob.

Raphael said:

"He must be married as quickly as possible."

Ber, who had until now remained silent, observed:

"Why not send him into the world?"

Saul thought a long time, and then replied:

"Your advice is not good. I cannot punish him severely. What would my father Hersh say to it, in whose footsteps he wishes to go, and whom I am not at liberty to judge. I cannot marry him quickly, because the child is not like other children—he is proud and sensitive, and does not brook any fetters. Besides, he is so disgraced and openly rebuked already that no wealthy or respectable Israelite will give him his daughter in marriage."

Again Saul's voice shook. He had lived to see his grandson, the most beloved of all his children, come down so low that no respectable family would receive him as son-in-law.

"I cannot send him away either," he continued, "because I am afraid that in the world he will lose all that is left of his father's faith. I am in the position of the great and wise Rabbi of whom it is written that he had a reckless son who ate pork in secret. People advised him to send his son out into the world and expose him to misery and a wandering life. But he replied: 'Let my son remain at home. The sight of his father's troubled and sorrowful face may soften his heart and lead him to a better life; stern misery would change it into hard stone.'"

Saul became silent—all around were silent; nothing was heard but now and then a sigh from the women.

The room became darker and darker.

After a while, in a subdued, almost timid, voice, Ber began:

"Allow me to open my heart before you to-day. I speak but seldom, because as often as I want to speak the remembrance of my younger years seems to rise before me and smother my voice; therefore it is the voice least heard of all the voices in the family. I left off speaking or advising, and looked only after my business and my family. But I must speak now. Why trouble so much about Meir? Give him his liberty; let him go into the world, and do not punish him either by your anger or by dooming him to poverty. What wrong has he done? He keeps all the commandments faithfully; has studied the holy books; all the members of our family, and even the poor, ignorant people love him like their own soul. What do you want from him? What has he done? Why should you punish him?"

Ber's speech, delivered in a lazy, half-timid voice, made a deep impression on all those present. His wife Sarah, evidently frightened, pulled him by the sleeve and whispered:

"Hush, Ber! hush! they will be angry with you for your rash words."

Saul raised his head several times arid bent it down again. One might have said that gratitude for Ber's defence of his grandson struggled with his rising anger.

"Ber, your own sins have spoken through your mouth. You stand up for Meir because you were once what he is now," said the passionate Abraham.

Raphael, with his usual gravity, said:

"You say, Ber, that he has not sinned against the ten commandments. That is true; but you forget that the covenant does not stand alone upon the ten commandments which Moses brought from Sinai, but also upon the six hundred and thirteen which the great Tanaites, Amoraits and Gaons, with other Wise Men, have put down in the Talmud. We not only owe obedience to them, but also to the six hundred and thirteen of the Talmud; and Meir has transgressed many of them."

"He has sinned greatly," called out Abraham, "but the greatest and blackest sin be committed to-day, when he denounced a brother Israelite before the stranger, and thus broke the solidarity and faith of his people. What will become of us if we accuse each other before the stranger? Whom shall we love and shield if not our brethren, who are bones of our bones and our blood. He felt more sorry for a stranger than for a brother Israelite, and for that he ought to—"

The violent and impulsive man broke off his sentence in the middle and remained open-mouthed, like one turned to stone.

He sat opposite the window, at which he stared fixedly with stupefied eyes.

"What is that?" he called out in a trembling voice:

"What is that?" said everybody; and all except Saul rose from their seats.

The room, which had been quite dark, became suddenly lighted up, as if by the reflection of thousands of torches from without; not only the house of Ezofowich, but the whole sky above was illuminated by a red glare.

The men and women stood spell-bound in the middle of the room, and looked silently at the fiery volumes, which rose higher and higher into the heavens above.

"How quickly he has done the deed!" said Abraham.

Nobody answered.

The little town, so quiet a moment before, became suddenly very noisy and tumultuous. No nation in the world is so easily carried away by sensations of any kind. This time the sensation was a powerful one. It was aroused by the mighty element which carries destruction upon earth and lifts its blood-red banner up to the skies, The noise of thousands of running feet re-echoed in the streets like the rushing of many waters. The square was black with a dense crowd, which swiftly and noisily moved in one direction. Above the din of all the voices single words were heard now and then more distinctly.

"Kamionka! It is the Kamionka estate!" exclaimed those that knew the country.

"Hear! hear! it is Kamionka!" took up a chorus of voices.

"Ai! Ai! such a fine place! such a magnificent place!"

Those were the last words that reached the inmates of Ezofowich's house. The crowd streamed on, and the voices sounded faint and far off.

Then Saul rose from the sofa, and, his face turned towards the window, he stood silent and motionless.

Then he raised his trembling hands and said, in a faltering voice:

"In my father Hersh's time and in my own, such things did not happen, and sins like this were not in Israel. Our hands used to spread gold and silver over the land, but not fire and tears."

He paused a few moments, gazing thoughtfully at the window.

"My father Hersh and his grandfather lived in friendship; they often conversed together about important affairs, and the lord of Kamionka—he wore then a gold brocaded sash and a sword at his side—said to my father Hersh: 'Ezofowich, you are a large-hearted and a far-seeing man; if our side win we will make a nobleman of you at the Diet.' His son was not quite like his father, but he always spoke courteously to me, and I bought his corn for thirty years. Whenever he wanted money I was always ready, because his estate brought much gain to me. The lady of Kamionka—she is still living—liked my mother Frieda very much; she used to say: 'Mistress Frieda has a great many diamonds and I have only one.' She called her son, who was as the apple of her eye, her diamond—the same son whose house is now in flames," and he pointed at the fiery columns with a silent gesture of grief and horror.

Then Raphael spoke.

"When I was last time at Kamionka, the old lady was sitting with her son upon the balcony, and when I began to speak about business, she said to him: 'Remember, Sigismond, never sell your corn to anybody but to an Ezofowich; they are amongst the Jews the most honest and friendly towards us.' And after that she began to ask whether old Frieda was still alive, and her son Saul, and if he had many grandchildren. Then she looked at her son and said to me: 'Raphael, I have no grandson!' And I bowed politely and said: 'May the gracious lady live a hundred years and see a great many grandsons of her own!' I did not put a lie into her ear; I sincerely wished her well. Why should I not wish her well?"

Raphael left off speaking, and Saul, turning towards him, asked:

"Raphael, has he ever wronged you?"

Raphael thought a little and then replied:

"No. He has never done me the slightest wrong. He is a little proud, it is true, and does not look sharp after his business; he is fond of amusements, and when an Israelite bows to him he gives a careless nod and does not try to make a friend of him . . . but his heart is good, and his word is his bond, and in business he is more likely to wrong himself than anybody else."

Sarah, who stood near her husband, wrung her hands, and rocking her body gently, sighed mournfully:

"Ai! all such a handsome gentleman to have such a misfortune happen to him."

"Such a fine young man, and he was going to marry such a beautiful young lady," said the wife of Raphael.

"And how will he be able to marry now, when he is ruined?" said Saul, and he added in a lower voice:

"A great sin has been committed in Israel!"

"A great shame has fallen to-day on Israel's head," said Raphael.

From a corner of the room where the glare penetrated least, came or rather crept forth Abraham. Bent almost in two, and trembling in every limb, he kissed his father's hand.

"Father," he said, "I thank you that you saved me from it."

Saul raised his head. The colour came back to his face, and energy gleamed in his eyes.

"Abraham," he said, in a commanding tone, "have your horses ready at once, and drive as quickly as you can to the estate where the young lord is staying. He cannot see the conflagration from there; drive quickly and tell him to come and save his property and his mother."

"You, Raphael, go at once to the Jankiel's and Leisor's inns where the peasants are drinking. Tell them to drive home quickly to save their lord's property."

Obedient as two children, Saul's two sons left the room at once and the women went into the porch. Then Ber came close to Saul.

"Father! what do you think now of Meir? Was he not right to warn the lord of Kamionka?"

Saul bent his head, but did not answer.

"Father," said her, "save Meir! Go to the Rabbi, and to the judges, and elders; ask them not to bring him before their tribunal."

For a long while Saul did not answer.

"It is very difficult for me to go," he said at last. "The hardest task to humble my gray head before Todros," but he added after a pause, "I will go tomorrow—we must stand up for the child—though he be rash and does not pay due reverence to the faith and customs of his father."

While the foregoing took place in the house of Ezofowich, the little meadow close to the town was covered with a waving, murmuring and compact mass of people. From this spot, the terrible conflagration could be seen most distinctly; therefore the whole population, eager and greedy for sensation, congregated there.

The reflected light of the fire rose above the pine forest, which was enveloped in a ray light and so transparent that every branch and stem could be seen distinctly. The wide half-circle of the glare, dark red below, grew paler and paler above, till the golden yellow light lost itself in the pale blue sky. The stars twinkled with a feeble, uncertain light, and on the opposite side, beyond the birch wood, rose the red ball of the moon.

Among the population, sentences and words, quick and sharp, whizzed about like pistol shots. Somebody was telling that when Jankiel Kamionker heard about the fire, he had gone off to the estate tearing his hair like a madman, wailing and lamenting over the loss of the spirits which he had there in such quantities. Hearing this, many people smiled knowingly; others shook their heads compassionately at the supposed heavy losses of Jankiel; but the greater part of the people remained silent. They guessed the truth; here and there somebody knew about it; but nobody dared to meddle in a business so full of danger, even with an unwary word.

A full hour after the first gleam of the fire had been noticed a light carriage and four gray horses were seen in full gallop across the streets in the direction of the meadow.

It was not the regular road to Kamionka, in fact, there was no road at all; but by driving across the meadow, the young owner shortened his way considerably. He did not sit in the carriage, but stood straight up, holding on by the box, seat, and kept his eyes fixed upon the red glare of the flames, where his mother was, which was consuming the house of his fathers.

When the horses came to the meadow and he saw the crowd, he shouted to the coachman:

"Be careful; do not hurt the people."

"A good man," said one in the crowd; "at such a moment he still thinks of other people."

Some groaned aloud.

A few heads clustered together, whispering. The name of Jankiel was whispered low—very low.

But there was a spot, not on the meadow, but in the little street close by, where people talked aloud. Near Shmul's hut, upon the bench before the window, stood Meir. Thence he looked at the meadow, black with people, and at the red glare of the fire; around him in the street stood a dozen or more young men, his friends. Their faces looked excited and indignant.

Haim, the son of Abraham, who an hour before had been an unseen witness to Saul's conversation with his sons, told his friends about it. Carried away by his indignation, he repeated in a loud voice every word that had passed and his friends re-echoed them. The young and usually timid spirits grew bolder under the pressure of shame and exasperation. Only one voice was missing among the chorus of voices—the most prominent of all, because he was the leading spirit of the young people. Eliezer was not among those who crowded round Meir; he sat apart, leaning against the black wall of the hut, His elbows rested on his knees and his face was buried in his hands. He looked like one petrified in this position; full of grief and shame. From time to time he rocked his body slightly. The dreamy, timid man was overwhelmed with bitter arid desperate thoughts.

Presently, from beyond the corner of the street, a black thin shadow glided swiftly along the walls; and close by the group of young men, the heavy panting, almost moaning, of an exhausted human being became audible.

"Shmul!" said the young men.

"Hush!" said Meir, in a low voice, jumping down from the bench. "Let nobody utter the name of the miserable man, so as not to bring him into danger. I have been standing here to watch for his return. Go away from here, and remember that your eyes have not seen Shmul coming from that direction, not seen—"

"You are right," whispered Aryel; "he is our poor brother,"

"Poor brother, poor, poor!" they repeated all round.

They dispersed at once. Near the hut remained only Meir and Eliezer, whom nothing could rouse from his stupor.

Shmul ran into the hut, now deserted by every one except the blind mother and the smallest children.

There he threw himself at full length upon the floor and beat his forehead in the dust; sobbing and moaning, he uttered in broken sentences:

"I am not guilty, not guilty, not guilty. I did not fire it. I did not hold the vessel full of oil. He, Johel, did it all; I stood on watch in the fields—when I saw the fire—Ai! ai! I understood what I had been doing—"

"Hush!" said a low, sorrowful voice close to the despairing, almost senseless, man. "Hold your tongue, Shmul, till I shut the door and window."

Shmul raised his face, but again dropped it on the dusty floor.

"Morejne," he moaned, "morejne, my daughters were growing up; it was necessary to marry them; I had no money to pay the taxes with for the whole year!"

"Get up and calm yourself," said Meir.

Shmul did not listen. With his lips sweeping the dusty boards, he kept on moaning.

"Morejne! save me. I am lost, body and soul."

"You have not lost your soul, Shmul. The Eternal will weigh your poverty against your sin; that is if you do not take the money with which bad people tempted you."

This time Shmul lifted his face from the floor. The lean and ashy-pale face, covered with dust and twitching with nervous terror, presented a picture of the deepest human misery.

He looked at Meir with despairing eyes, and pointing at the miserable room, he groaned:

"Morejne! how shall we be able to live without that money?"

Fully half-an-hour passed before Meir left the cottage, where the outcast Shmul accused himself, wailed and moaned in a voice that gradually became lower till it almost sank to a whisper. The ruddy glow from the street fell upon one corner of the dark entrance. There, coiled up between the goats, his head resting upon a projecting board, with the red light of the fire upon his face, slept Lejbele. Neither noise nor the glare of the fire, not even the lamentations of his unhappy father, had disturbed his innocent sleep among his friends, the goats.

Next morning an unusual stir prevailed amongst the inhabitants of the town. The common topic of all their conversation was the conflagration at the Kamionka estate. The whole house was reduced to ashes; nearly all the outbuildings had been burned down; the barns and ricks with all the year's harvest had been devoured by the flames.

The old lady, the mother of the lord of Kamionka, was very ill, and had been carried into a neighbour's house.

To discuss these and other items of news, people stood in groups about the streets or before their houses; all the ordinary business of their every-day life seemed suspended for the time being.

Now and then among the groups a single question was heard repeatedly:

"What will become of him?"

The question had nothing whatever to do with the ruined young nobleman, but referred to Jankiel.

Some pitied the former sincerely, as also some blamed the latter; but the landowner was to them a perfect stranger, known to most of them only by sight. Jankiel Kamionker was connected with them by a thousand threads of common interest and friendship; besides that, he was surrounded by the halo of wealth and the reputation of ardent piety. No wonder that even those who blamed him trembled for his safety.

"Will they suspect him?" asked somebody here and there.

"Nobody would dream of suspecting him, but for Meir Ezofowich putting bad thoughts into their heads," was said here and there.

"He has broken the solidarity and the covenant of Israel."

"What else could you expect? He is a kofrim, a heretic!"

"He dared to raise his hand against Reb Moshe!"

"He lives in friendship with the Karaite's girl!"

Those who spoke cast ominous, threatening glances in the direction of Ezofowich's dwelling.

The house was unusually quiet and lifeless. The windows looked upon the square, which, as a rule, were open in summer-time so that anybody could see the daily life of people who had nothing to conceal, were shut to-day. No one had remembered to open them, or to straighten the sitting-room—as a rule kept in such perfect order. The women wandered aimlessly from one place to another; their caps were crushed and in disorder from their frequently putting their hands upon their heads; they stood before the kitchen fire and sighed distractedly. Sarah's eyes were red; her husband, Ber, had two deep wrinkles on his forehead, a sure sign to her that he suffered grievously. He did not open his lips to her, but sat with his head resting upon his hand, looking vacantly at his brothers-in-law. Raphael had his account books before him, but his thoughts were elsewhere as he raised his head frequently and looked at his brothers. Old Saul sat on the sofa reading the sacred books; but, judging by his countenance, derived but little comfort from them.

Near the window in her deep easy-chair sat the great-grandmother, dozing. Hers was the only face that did not show any change, or lose any of its usual serenity. She opened her eyes now and then, then dozed off again. Soon after twelve o'clock the women busied themselves with arranging the table for dinner.

The door opened softly. Meir entered the room, and standing close to the wall, his eyes looked around at all faces. It was a troubled look, almost timid and very sorrowful. Those present raised their eyes at him for a second only; but in that short instant a heavy load of mute reproaches fell upon the young man. It was the reproach of people used to a quiet, peaceful life, for past troubles and troubles still to come; there was some pity in it for the offender, and also a threat of casting him off.

Only the great-grandmother opened her eyes when she saw him, and with a smile, murmured:

"Kleineskind!"

Meir's eyes rested tenderly and thoughtfully upon her face. At this moment there came a sudden dash and a heavy thump. From among the groups that looked angrily at Ezofowich's house, somebody had thrown a heavy stone, which, breaking the window, flew close over Freida's head and fell into the middle of the room.

Saul's face became of a dull red; the women arranging the table screamed in terror; Raphael, Abraham, and Ber jumped up suddenly. All stared at the broken window, but presently their attention became concentrated upon their great-grandmother Freida, who stood straight up and looked attentively at the stone in the middle of the room, and then called out in her loud, tuneless whisper:

"It is the same stone! They threw it through the window the same when Reb Nohim quarrelled with Hersh because he wanted to live in friendship with the strangers. It is the same stone—at whom did they throw it now?" All the wrinkles in her face quivered, and her eyes for the first time wide open, travelled about the room.

"At whom did they throw it?" she repeated.

"At me, dear bobe," replied, from the opposite wall, a voice full of unspoken grief.

"Meir!" exclaimed the great-grandmother—not in her usual whisper, but in a loud, almost piercing voice.

Meir crossed the room, stood before her and took the little wrinkled hand caressingly in his own. He looked at her eyes full of tenderness, and as if in mute entreaty. She seemed to feel his look, for her eyelids flickered tremulously and restlessly. Saul rose from the sofa.

"Raphael," he said. "Give me my cloak and hat."

"Where are you going, father?" asked both sons simultaneously.

"I am going to humble my head before the Rabbi; to ask him to delay his judgment on my headstrong child until the anger in the hearts of the people has subsided."

Presently the gray-headed patriarch of the greatest family in the town, dressed in his long cloak and tall shiny hat, was seen slowly and gravely crossing the market-place. The groups standing about made way for him, bowing respectfully.

Somebody said loudly

"Poor Reb Saul, to have such a grandson!" The old man did not reply, but pressed his lips closer together.

More than an hour had elapsed ere Saul returned from his errand. He found all the elder members of the family in the same position as he had left them. Meir sat close to the easy-chair of the great-grandmother, who tightly clutched him by the coat sleeve.

Sarah met her father and relieved him of his hat and cloak.

"What news do you bring, father?" asked Raphael.

Saul breathed heavily, and looked gloomily on the floor.

"What could I bring from there," he said after a momentary silence, "but shame and humiliation? The hearts of Todros rejoices over the misfortune of the house of Ezofowich. Smiles, like reptiles, are writhing and crawling over his yellow face."

"And what did he say?" asked several voices. "He said he had been far too forbearing towards my godless, insolent grandson—that Reb Moshe, Kamionker, and all the people were urging him to sit in judgment upon Meir; at my intercession he would put off the trial until to-morrow after sunset, and said if Meir humbled himself and asked his and his people's pardon, the sentence would be less severe."

All eyes turned towards Meir.

"What do you say to it?" asked a chorus of voices.

Meir looked thoughtfully down.

"Give me time—till to-morrow," he pleaded. "I may perhaps find a way out of it."

"How can you find a way?" they exclaimed. "Allow me not to answer you till to-morrow," repeated Meir.

They nodded and became silent. It was mute consent.

In all their hearts fear and anger were struggling with family pride. They felt angry with Meir, yet trembled for his fate, and the very thought that a member of their family should humble himself publicly before the Rabbi and the people seemed unbearable.

"Who knows," whispered Raphael, "he may find a way to avoid it?"

"Perhaps his mother will appear to him in his sleep and tell him what to do," sighed Sarah.

The belated dinner, passed off in gloomy silence, interrupted only by the sighs of women and a smothered sob from the children, who had been forbidden to laugh and chatter.

The grieved and mournful faces looked now and then at Freida, who showed an unusual restlessness. She did not speak, neither did she doze during the meal; but moved uneasily in her chair, looked at Meir, then at the shattered window, and in the middle of the room on the spot where the stone had fallen.

"What ails her?" asked the members of the family of each other, in a perturbed voice.

"She is recalling something to her mind," others replied. "She is afraid of something. She wants to speak, but cannot find words."

When the dinner was over, two great-granddaughters wanted to help Freida into the next room and lay her down to rest as usual, but she planted her feet firmly on the floor and pointed to the easy-chair by the window. Presently the inmates of the room began gradually to disperse.

Raphael and Ber went driving away to a neighbouring estate, where they had some important business to transact. Abraham shut himself up in his room to look after his accounts, or perhaps to read. Saul gave orders to his daughter to keep the house quiet, and sighing wearily, lay down upon his bed. The women, after raking out the fire in the kitchen, shut the door of the sitting-room and betook themselves with their needlework to the courtyard, where they watched the children at play, and conversed together in a low voice. The great-grandmother remained alone in the sitting-room.

Strange to say, though perfect silence reigned in the house, she did not fall asleep or even doze for a moment.

She sat in the easy-chair with her eyes wide open, and looking at the broken window, her lips kept moving continually as if she were speaking to herself. Sometimes she rocked her head, heavy, with the voluminous turban, and the diamonds flashed out and glittered in the sudden motion, and the pendants jingled against the links of the golden chain. Her lips moved incessantly. Presently her hands also moved quickly. It seemed as if she spoke with somebody; with the spirits of the Past, who came forth from her clouded memory. Suddenly she rocked her head, and said aloud:

"It was the same way when my Hersh found the writing of the Senior—bad people threw stones at him."

She stopped; great tears gathered in her eyes and ran down her withered cheeks.

Meir rose from the bench where he had been sitting, crossed the room quickly, sat down on the low stool where the old woman rested her foot, and putting his folded hands upon her knee asked:

"Bobe! where is the writing of the Senior?"

At the sound of the voice which, as well as the face, reminded her of the man she had loved so well, and the days of her youth and happiness, she smiled. Her eyes full of tears did not look at her great-grandson, but somewhere far beyond, and she began to whisper:

"The day he quarrelled with Reb Nohim and angered the people, he came home and sat down sorrowful upon the bench and called his wife, Freida. Freida was then young and beautiful; she wore a white turban and stood before the kitchen fire, looking after the servants; but when she heard her husband's voice, she went at once and stood before him, waiting for his words. 'Freida!' he said, 'where the writing of the Senior?'"

Then suddenly the whisper ceased. The young man sitting at her feet pressed his hands convulsively together and asked again:

"Bobe! where is the writing of the Senior?"

The old woman gently swayed her head, and her lips moved.

"He asked: 'Where is the writing of the Senior? Did the Senior bury it in the ground? No! he could not have buried it, as dampness and worms would have destroyed it. Did he hide it in the walls? No! he knew that fire might destroy the walls. Where did he hide it?' Thus asked Hersh, and his wife Freida pondered over his words and then pointed at the bookcase where the Senior's old books were preserved, and said: 'Hersh my Hersh! the writing is there.' When Freida said that, Hersh rejoiced and said: 'You, Freida, have a wise head, and your soul is as beautiful as your eyes.'"

And smiling at the dim pictures of her youthful days, she whispered:

"Then he said: 'A virtuous woman is far above rubies and her husband doth trust her!'"

The young man looked at her with entreating eyes, and again asked:

"Bobe! what did Hersh do with the writing?"

The old woman did not answer at once, but her lips moved silently as if she spoke with an invisible being, and then took up the thread of her tale again:

"Hersh came back from a long journey, deeply grieved, and said to Freida: 'Everything is lost. We must bide the Senior's writing again; it is no use now.' Freida asked: 'Hersh! where will you hide the writing?' Hersh replied: 'I will hide it where it was before, and you alone, Freida, will know the secret.'"

Meir's eyes sparkled with sudden joy.

"Bobe! is the writing there?" And he pointed at the old bookcase.

Freida gave no answer, but continued in a whisper:

"He said: 'You alone will know the secret. And when the time is drawing near and your soul is about to leave your body, tell it to the son or grandson who resembles most your husband'—'and which of my sons or grandsons is most like my husband Hersh?' 'It is Meir, the son of Benjamin, who is like him as two grains of sand are like each other. He is my child, the dearest of all. Freida will tell him the secret.'"

Meir took both the hands of his great-grandmother in his own, and covered them with kisses.

"Bobe," he whispered, "Is the writing there?" pointing at the bookcase. But the old woman still followed the thread of her musings.

"Hersh said to Freida: 'If the elders of the family raise their hands against him and the people throw stones at him, you, Freida, tell him the secret. Let him take the writing of the Senior to his heart, and leave everything, his house and wealth and family, and go forth into the world; for that writing is more precious than gold and pearls. It is the covenant of Israel with the Present, which flows like a great river over their heads and with the nations which tower around him like great mountains.'"

"Bobe! the elders of the family have risen up against me; the people have thrown stones at me—I am that dearest grandson of whom your husband Hersh spoke—tell me, is the writing among those old volumes?"

A broad, almost triumphant, smile lit up the wrinkled face. She shook her head with a feeling of secret joy, and whispered:

"Freida has watched over her husband's treasure and guarded it like her own soul. When she became a widow, Reb Nohim Todros came to her house and wanted to have the bookcase and the volumes put into the fire; then Reb Baruch Todros came and wanted to burn the books; but whenever they came, Freida screened the bookcase with her own body, and said: 'This is my house, and everything in it is my own.' And when Freida stood before the bookcase, Freida's sons and grandsons stood before her and said: 'It is our mother; we will not let her be harmed.'"

"Reb Nohim was very angry and went away—Reb Isaak did not come, because he knew from his fathers that as long as Freida lives nobody touched the old bookcase—Freida has watched over her husband's treasure; it remains there and sleeps in peace."

With these last words the old woman pointed her thin hand at the bookcase, which stood not far from her, and a quiet laugh, a laugh of joy and almost childish triumph, shook her aged breast.

With one bound Meir reached the bookcase, and with a powerful hand shook the old, rusty lock. The door flew open and a cloud of dust burst forth which covered Meir's head as it had once—long ago—covered Hersh's golden hair and Freida's white turban. He did not heed it, but plunged his hand amongst the books from which his ancestors, had drawn their wisdom and where that lay hidden which was to direct him on his way.

At the sight of the open bookcase and the clouds of dust Freida stretched forth both arms and called out:

"Hersh! Hersh! my own Hersh!"

It was not the usual tuneless whisper, but a loud cry wrung from the heart, full of the joys and griefs of the past. She had forgotten the great-grandson, and thought the tall, golden-haired youth, covered with dust, was her husband come back to her from unknown worlds.

Meir turned his excited face and burning eyes to her.

"Bobe!" he said breathlessly, "where is it? On the top? Below? In this book—that—or that?"

"In that," said the woman, pointing at the book upon which Meir's hand rested.

Presently a roll of yellow papers rustled under the parchment cover of the volume. Holding them in both hands, Meir fell down before his great-grandmother and kissed her hands and feet.

Freida smiled, and touched his head gently; but by and by her eyelids drooped, and her whole face took the expression of sweet dreaminess again. Tired with the strain upon her clouded memory, looking still into the bright dreamland of the past, the centenarian had fallen asleep—touched, as it were, by a gentle wave of the eternal sleep.