Sir Henry's teeth clicked angrily as the door closed behind the jailor. "Well?" he demanded of the Hessian Commander. "Well, since this man seems to bear out the reputation for honesty you gave him, it seems that we are on the wrong trail. Yet I mistrust this Haym Salomon, though our friendly jailor declares that he knows naught against him. It might be well to keep a stricter watch on this Jew broker in the future."

General Heister nodded emphatically. He was far too good a diplomat to quarrel with Sir Henry or to waste breath defending a man whom the Englishman mistrusted. "I only know that he is a man of rare parts," he said, "a man who has traveled much before coming to America and has become versed in many tongues. That is why, when I found him among the captured Americans two years ago, I deemed it better to use him and his talents rather than confine him with the others to rot and die of the prison fevers. So I have allowed him greater freedom than the other prisoners and found a place for him in the commissariat department where his knowledge of tongues and his Hebrew shrewdness have proved of great value to me."

Sir Henry gave a short laugh. "That Hebrew shrewdness of your learned friend may have proved of equal value to several of the French and American lads who have lately escaped from our prison. No, do not remove him—just yet. Give the rogue a long enough rope and he may find it dangling around his own neck on the scaffold out yonder." He turned to the sheaf of papers before him, pushing back his fine lace ruffles. "Enough of Haym Salomon. He will be my care hereafter. Now go over these lists with me, Heister," and he began to turn the closely written sheets with his long, nervous fingers.

At that moment Jonas, the jailor, was talking in low, excited tones to a man he had stopped in one of the prison corridors, a grave-faced man with shrewd eyes and a tender mouth which smiled now at the other's earnestness.

"I can only warn you, Mr. Salomon," repeated the little jailor, "that Sir Henry is watching you as a chicken hawk watches a tender pullet. Many a time have I lost a choice fowl through the appetite of those accursed thieves," he added, half to himself, as his mind wandered back to his quiet farm. Then, pulling himself back to the present: "I know that many things go on in this prison which—which might not suit the pleasure of his majesty over seas, but," with a shrewd chuckle, "I cannot be every place and if a lad or two does escape—well, may the dear God be as gracious to my one boy should he fall into the hands of your George Washington and his rebels. But, Mr. Salomon," detaining the quiet man in the black coat who was about to pass on, "do not take too many risks just now. Do not allow your kind heart to lead you into danger. For if you are discovered being—ah—too kind to some of our prisoners, I cannot save you from Sir Henry. Promise me," laying one of his great, red hands on the other's arm, "promise me, you will attempt no more 'prison deliveries' until his suspicions are quieted."

Haym Salomon shook his head. "I am sorry to cause you anxiety, my friend," he answered, kindly, "for you have been a good friend to me. And I will try to be careful—if I can. But first there is a promise I must redeem. When that debt is paid, I will try to behave so discreetly that even Sir Henry Clinton will own his suspicions of me unfounded."

"A debt to be paid!" The jailor looked puzzled. "Why, you are one of the richest brokers in New York. If you owe any money, give me a word to your wife and I will see that the debt is discharged and your mind at rest."

Salomon shook his head, smilingly. "It is a debt money cannot pay," he answered. "I have pledged my word and that has never been broken, nor can I break it now." He passed on and the jailor looked after him, a look of mingled respect and affection on his fat, stupid face.

A place of horror even to a well man, the old Provost meant unspeakable tortures to a youth slowly recovering from prison fever. Young Louis di Vernon, lying upon the dirty wooden floor, faint from the fever and sick for home, turned longing eyes toward the grated door which had not swung open since Jonas had entered with his breakfast of bread and water for the prisoners. But Haym Salomon had promised to come later in the day and the boy waited confidently, for like many others he trusted the quiet man with the shrewd eyes and tender mouth.

At last the door opened and Jonas enter the room, wooden bowls of a sticky, floury substance he called "gruel" on his tray. He passed between the men, leaving his bowls besides them on the floor. When they complained of thirst, he stopped for a moment to ladle out a dipperful of water from the wooden pail he carried upon his left arm, while now and then he stopped to hear some complaint of a weary man, to promise aid or seek to jest away the prisoner's melancholy.

"The broth too salt?" he repeated, gravely. "How can that be when one of your rebel friends serves behind the soup kettle this month? Now if a poor Hessian or loyal Englishman like myself were cook, you might have reason to complain that he spitefully over-seasoned your victuals. Or is it that the cooking of your rebels is as evil as your politics?" And again: "Too crowded, eh? Well, some folks are never satisfied and you'd be among the growlers, my friend, if you slept on down and fine linen. Why among the well prisoners, 'tis so cramped for space that when their bones ache from the floor at night and they would turn, they find themselves wedged in so tight that not a man can budge till I give the order, 'Left, Right!' when they turn in a solid body and ease their weary sides. And you, who sleep in what they would consider a palace, poor souls, call yourself suffering for room."

He had reached Louis by this time and his quick eye noted how flushed the lad was, while his eager glance kept turning toward the grated door. With an impatient gesture the Frenchman pushed away the bowl the jailor set beside him. "I am sick of prison fare," he cried, hotly. "When I left France to follow Lafayette I never dreamed that I might die of prison fever in a hole like this. Take away your food; the sooner I starve, the sooner I am free."

Jonas looked him over sympathetically, but could say nothing of comfort; instead he pushed the bowl toward him again, thinking, perhaps, the dinner might do something to restore the boy's peace of mind. But the prisoner again shoved him aside and sat up, his eyes straining toward the grated door, where some one now rattled the bars.

"Let me in, friend Jonas," said the voice of Haym Salomon, "and I promise not to steal any of the good dinner you have brought your fledglings."

The heartsick prisoners smiled at the poor jest and more than one man turned eagerly as Jonas unlocked the door and admitted the Jewish broker, a prisoner like themselves, yet bringing with him the free air of the outside world. Haym passed from one to the other, with here a smile, there a word of comfort or bit of quaint philosophy. Into the fever-hot hands of one flaxen-haired farmer lad lying half delirious and dreaming of home, he dropped a few flowers plucked in the prison yard that morning; to a lonely, discouraged Frenchman he spoke in his own tongue, uttering a homely proverb that caused the homesick foreigner to laugh back into his smiling face. At last he came to Louis, and, with a nod toward the puzzled Jonas, lifted the bowl of soup and placed it to the boy's lips.

"Drink," he commanded gently, but gravely. "You must eat and drink and grow strong or you will not be able to go back to your sweetheart in France. I have not forgotten my promise to write to her for you, but first you must please me and eat. And, now, Jonas, some of your good clear water—as sparkling as the wines of sunny France. Did I ever tell you, Louis, my lad, of the little inn where I ate my first meal in your country and how the good landlord laughed at my blunders, for then I knew little of your tongue?"

Never taking his eyes from his friend's face, the boy obediently ate and drank and Jonas looked on, well satisfied. He knew that his masters did not concern themselves whether the prisoners starved or not; yet, somehow, it made him uncomfortable at times to see boys no older than his own son wasting away before his eyes. He wondered whether he was hardy enough to be an efficient jailor.

Something of his thoughts must have been written upon his broad, red face, for Salomon looking up quickly, nodded as though he understood. "Louis is a good lad, Jonas," he said, taking out his writing material and spreading it upon his knees. "There are many good lads here—boys like your boy who chooses to serve the king instead of the colonies. My little one is not yet old enough for the army; such a tiny mite, Louis!—but if he were, I should find it hard not to hate the man who caged him here behind bars like a beast and kept him stiffling in the prison darkness. You are too tender a man for such devil's work, friend Jonas. Ploughing and milking your peaceful cows might bring you less gold, but there would be no heart ache when the day's work was over."

Jonas scowled heavily. Rumors had reached him before of certain English sympathizers like himself who had found their work distasteful after a quiet talk with Salomon and had suddenly left their posts, declaring that they no longer desired to serve the king and his cause. To be sure, he, Jonas Schmidt, would remain a loyal servant to King George until the end of his days, and yet—why, should this quiet man prod his sleeping soul with disquieting thoughts?

"And now," Haym spoke briskly to the young Frenchman, "we will write to your sweetheart and tell her how well you are getting on and that as soon as the wound in your hand is healed you will write to her again." His pen raced over the paper. "Perhaps you will care to look it over and correct my spelling which is even worse in French than in English," and he handed the sheet covered with French characters to Louis. The boy took it languidly enough, but his weary eyes brightened as he read:

"Do not show any surprise, but I must communicate with you in this way lest there be spies among the prisoners who would betray us. You are to grow weaker and tomorrow morning the jail physician, whom I have bribed, will find that you have died in the night. The grave digger will turn your body over to friends of the cause who will help you to leave New York and reach the Colonials in safety. If I am ever free and you need a friend, call upon me without reserve."

The boy, his eyes filled with sudden tears, reached out and would have pressed Salomon's hand, but the latter drew back laughingly. "Why such gratitude over a mere letter which has taken me but a moment to pen?" he said lightly, speaking loudly enough to be heard by those about him. He folded the sheet carefully, placing it in his breast; as he did so, he felt the eyes of a prisoner upon him; a newcomer who looked him over carefully; then turned away with an indifference that Haym believed was wholly feigned. But if Salomon felt that the man was an informer he gave no sign. "Now I must about my work," he told Louis. "I will see that your missive leaves by the next ship. So eat, my little friend, grow fat, and cease to worry. Au revoir."

"Au revoir," answered Louis, with equal lightness. "I know my betrothed will rejoice to see your letter."

* * * * *

In one of the darkest cells of the old Provost sat Haym Salomon with chains about his wrists and ankles. From the courtyard he could hear the merry laughter of the British soldiers and their Hessian comrades as they smoked and jested after their evening meal. Like true soldiers, they took it all in a day's work and there seemed to be no lack of spirits among them even if they were assigned the grim task of hanging a man upon the morrow. And Haym Salomon, being condemned to death by a military court, smiled his grave, gentle smile to hear their mirth. He had played the game of chance and he had lost, so why should he complain?

Down the damp corridor came the shuffling of feet and a moment later Jonas Schmidt entered, a lantern in one hand, a straw basket on his arm. "Your wife has sent you something for your evening meal," he said gruffly, placing the basket on the bench beside the condemned man. He spoke loudly as he noticed a red-coated Briton loitering at the end of the passage. "Faith, she has sent you enough to feed a regiment. But women are ever foolish. My own wife is waiting for me below. She has come all the way to New York merely for advice about our milch heifer and traveled weighted down with cakes and eggs and butter—which all her careful packing could not shield enough from the August sun, and it has oozed through her finest linen napkin and she is sorely grieved. But not an egg is broken and tomorrow Sir Henry Clinton will eat eggs laid by loyal Tory hens for his breakfast with my compliments."

Haym glanced sharply at his old friend who seldom indulged in such lengthy speech. He was about to the basket, touched at his poor wife's thoughtfulness, when the jailor gave a warning gesture and tiptoed to the door. Then he came back, nodding, well pleased at his own craft.

"The lobster has disappeared," he whispered. "I thought that my chatter would mislead him. But we have not a minute to lose. Open the basket and dress quickly in the woman's raiment you find there." Then, as Haym stared at him bewildered, "Dress, I say," and he pulled from the basket a calico dress, tightly rolled, a gay shawl and a woman's deep straw bonnet. "When you were pronounced guilty—and every man in New York knew what the outcome of your trial would be—I said that I for one would not have your blood upon my hands. No, no, Haym Salomon. You may be an infidel Jew, but you are a better Christian than all who worship in Trinity Church every Sabbath. By the will of God, my son passed through New York on his way home for a moment's visit with his mother. I entrusted him with a letter I dared not send through the post, telling her to come to me at once, bringing a set of garments exactly like those she herself would wear." He chuckled. "She came, thinking me quite mad, but obeying me as is her habit. In a moment, I had told her all. She left the extra clothes in that basket with me and now waits us beyond the courtyard, where Sir Henry and his friends will find an empty scaffold tomorrow."

Thus the little jailor, unlocking Haym's chains as he spoke.

"But I do not understand—" Haym was still bewildered, after his long hours of torturing doubt and uncertainty—"You never spoke to me of escaping."

"I dared not raise your hopes too high. What if Sir Henry decided I was not so stupid after all and put another jailor in my place? But now all is ready. The sentinels below have seen my wife visit me today and I took pains to let them believe she was dining in my room, whereas she slipped away when the guard was being changed. Now when you leave the prison with me, I have but to say that I am taking my good dame to the stage coach." Again he chuckled, half forcing Salomon into the calico dress. "Instead, we will meet her at the appointed place, you will slip off these flounces—she cautioned me that you should not tread upon them and tear them down, as she loves this frock dearly,—and seek your good friend, General McDougall, who commands the rebel forces in our neighborhood and will grant you protection, while my wife and I will hurry back to our little farm."

"But your position here—" Haym fumbled with the unfamiliar buttons of the dress.

"I do not care to remain here and have Sir Henry Clinton try me in his court," answered the other, simply. "So a week ago I handed in my resignation—my rheumatism cannot endure this prison dampness—my wife insists that unless I come home for the harvest, she will come to fetch me—and other strong proofs that I must leave the dear old Provost. And, fortunately, my friend, the noble gentleman who secured this post for me has fallen in battle, and no one else knows where to look for the stupid jailor who helped Haym Salomon to escape."

"But, my friend, I cannot allow you to take such a risk for me," protested Salomon. "And even if you are not punished—do you care to give up your post for my sake?"

"I, too, have grown tired of this devil's business," answered the little jailor. "Even if you were to die tomorrow, I should give it up and go back to my little farm where I might feel myself an honest man again."

Suddenly Haym sat down upon the bench, his mouth grim and stubborn. "I will not go. My name has always been spotless. But if I escape, there may be some who will believe that the charges brought against me are true, that I have acted as a secret agent for General Washington, endeavoring to burn the British warships and warehouses at his instigation. Whereas you know that my one crime was helping those few poor lads escape from their torture."

"Will you stay here and argue until morning when the guards will take you below to let you swing for your folly!" muttered Jonas, now thoroughly exasperated. "You and I and the world know that not even Sir Henry himself believes the charges brought against you at your trial. It was only when that young Frenchman escaped two months ago and one of Sir Henry's ready spies betrayed you, that you were clapped into his cell to face charges in his court. I warned you then how it would be and you would not heed my words. Now let me save you before it is too late."

"But my wife and little son," murmured Salomon, as the other adjusted the heavy shawl about his shoulders. "Who will care for them?"

"You can send for them when you have found shelter. And if you stay and are hanged, who will protect them?" He pushed the large bonnet upon Salomon's head, nodding with satisfaction to see how it concealed his face. "Now, remember, say nothing and try to walk slowly—no, no, shorter steps! And put the basket on your arm." He stepped back to admire the result of his scheming. "Mr. Salomon," he said, seriously, "if I did not know that my good wife was waiting for me outside I would swear she stood before me. Come, take my arm,—remember, walk slowly—" and the two passed out into the sultry August night.

* * * * *

The Revolutionary War was over, and young Louis di Vernon, still very much of a boy despite the down upon his lip and the manly assurance achieved by almost seven years hard soldiering, leaned back in the shabby arm chair and looked questioningly at his host across the table. Since his escape from the old Provost, he had often heard tales of Haym Salomon's great wealth, the magnificent sums he had lent the government, his generosity toward the nation's unpaid representatives, especially his young friend Madison. And yet this man of almost fabulous wealth, this patriot who with his business partner, Robert Morris, had made it possible to feed and clothe Washington's starving and naked soldiers, this financier who had negotiated loans with Holland and France, now sat before him, meanly dressed, his brows wrinkled with care, his drooping shoulders too expressive of defeat for one who had helped his country win a glorious victory.

"It is good to see you again," said Haym, slowly. "I have not forgotten you, but I thought you might have forgotten me." He coughed, a hard, dry cough, leaning his fast graying head upon his hand.

"We are used to having our friends forget us," murmured his wife, who sat sewing beside the lamp. She was a brisk, dark-haired woman, a member of the famous Franks family which had served the country so well during the dark days of the Revolution. "Of the many youths my husband aided in prison, you are the first one who came to thank him for his service."

"Nay, Rachel," her husband chided her gently. "I did not seek for thanks. And it was not those brave soldiers I tried to serve, but freedom." His tired eyes glowed with a warm light as he turned to Louis. "I was born in unhappy Poland, so it is not strange that I loved freedom with all my heart and with all my soul. And when I was in prison, no longer free to serve this country which had welcomed me so heartily, I thanked God that I was permitted to aid those who were fighting her battles and seeking to make her free before the world."

"And after he escaped here to Philadelphia," added his wife, a note of pride in her voice, "he fought for the colonies just as surely as Colonel Franks upon the battlefield. You have heard of the vast sums of money he lent the bankrupt government—and without a bit of security, too."

Haym held up his hand in protest. "What security did I need? If I could not trust my country, whom should I trust?" he asked her in quiet sincerity.

She bent her dark head over the little garment she was mending, her lips curved a bit scornfully. "I try not to be impatient. I know that even though peace has come, commerce is still languishing; that it will take many, many months for the government to pay its debts. Yet it hurts me to see you so worried, so hampered because you lack capital to go on with your business." Her dark eyes sparkled with indignation. "You are only forty-five, Haym," she declared, almost fiercely, "and yet your many cares make you seem almost an old man."

"I am glad to have been able to give my youth to my country," he answered. Then, turning to Louis di Vernon: "Do not think my wife too bitter? She has had sore trials," and he gently patted her work-worn hand. "I know it is not for herself she grieves, but she is troubled for me and for our little ones. And, in truth, things have grown dark for us of late. My business has suffered during the war and I was obliged to neglect it while I attended to affairs of state. And now that peace has come at last, I find that my old good fortune has deserted me."

"If you had only kept the remnant of your fortune," sighed his wife, "the sixty-four thousand dollars you lent to Mr. Morris for his bank would have tided us over these evil times."

"But I could not allow the National Bank to fail," protested Salomon. "Somehow," turning to his guest, "I have grown like the old philosopher of my people who was so unfortunate that he once declared that if he took to making shoes everyone would go barefoot, if he became a shroud maker, no one would die." He laughed softly, then grew suddenly grave. "The merchants to whom I have extended credit have failed. There have been losses at sea—" he shrugged, and became silent, his eyes grown strangely large in his thin white face, seeming to look into the far future. "Mr. Madison and my other friends will not forget me," he said slowly, "and my country in whose keeping I may have to leave my wife and infant children before long, will be glad to repay her debt and care for them." A strange look of peace swept over his tired face; it was well that his dimming eyes could not see the long years during which his country would forget to be grateful and to repay.

A feeling half of pity, half of shame filled the young man's heart. "I—I am sorry," he stammered.

"You need not pity me." Salomon smiled his old gentle smile. "I have been given a chance to serve the cause of freedom with my fortune; I have been of service to my own people, too, the Hebrews of Philadelphia, and it gladdens my heart to believe that my children's children will worship the God of our fathers here in this place in the synagogue I have helped to build. I do not think my life has been such a very great failure after all," he ended, naively. "And it is good to know that what I have done has borne fruit. That is why your coming here tonight to thank me has heartened me more than news of the safe arrival of those missing merchant-ships at port."

Louis arose, his honest face red with shame. "I did not want to hurt you," he said, speaking with difficulty. "When I came here tonight and you both thought it was just to thank you before I set sail for France, I was ashamed to tell you the reason of my visit. For I am like the others; I would not have come to thank you for favors past; not knowing of your misfortune, I only came to ask new bounties; that is why I am ashamed."

"Then why do you tell me now?" Salomon's voice had grown very tired. "I should have liked to believe that you were not here for favors."

"I could not go away and have you believe a lie. You are too honest a man to lie to, Mr. Salomon. Are you sorry I told the truth?"

"No. That takes the pain away." A long silence while the January wind howled outside. At last Haym spoke. "What did you wish of me—though now I may be unable to grant it."

"I leave shortly for France," answered the young man, flushed beneath the other's quiet gaze. "Although I return a poor man, my betrothed has waited for me and I desired to buy a bit of land for my own that we might become householders as our parents were before us. I knew you would trust me and that is why I came to you, my one friend in America."

"Now I am truly sorry for my losses," answered Salomon. "If I could only help you—but, perhaps, Mr. Morris—yes, I will give you a note to him, and though I am not prosperous today, he will be willing to trust me as your security."

But Louis di Vernon shook his head. "I cannot think of it," he answered, stubbornly. "Do not insist, or I shall be sorry that I told you of my desires. Please have this visit as it should have been; to thank you for your great kindness to me; not to ask more favors."

"As you will," answered Haym with a smile. "But you must not leave us without a little token for your betrothed." Going to the mantel piece, he took down a silver cup, quaintly carved, and slipped it into the young man's unwilling hand. "Nay, lad, take it, it is all I can give you—this and my blessing for your future." Again the wind shook the window pane. "It is a bitter night outside. We have no guest chamber, but if you care to sleep beside our fire——"

"Nay, after Valley Forge a soldier is not afraid of the storm," laughed the Frenchman. "And I cannot thank you for this—and all your kindness. But she is a woman and when I tell my Mairie, she will write you all the love and gratitude that is in our hearts." He bent over Mistress Salomon's hand with all the courtly breeding of his race. "It is only Au revoir tonight, Madame, for I will try to see you again before I leave Philadelphia."

He gathered his cloak about him and went out into the storm, leaving Salomon to meet his wife's reproachful eyes. "Yes, I know, heart's dearest, that I should not give silver cups to beggarly Frenchmen," he told her with a whimsical smile, "for who knows when we will have to pawn the little that remains of our silver. But until then—" he shrugged goodnaturedly, and a fit of coughing drowned the rest.

Several days later young Louis di Vernon sat in a coffee house, his traveling bag and a bundle of toys and goodies for the little Salomon children at his feet. Over his cup he read the latest edition of the "Pennsylvania Journal and Weekly Advertiser," pausing to stare at a modest notice tucked in an obscure corner of the sheet. He put down his cup untasted and read it again with whitening lips: "On Thursday died Haym Salomon, a broker."



ACROSS THE WATERS

A Story of the City of Refuge Planned by Mordecai Noah.

The two children stood hand in hand in a corner of Mr. Mordecai Noah's handsome library in New York, both badly frightened, although the boy tried hard to appear at ease in his strange surroundings. They still wore the dress of their native Tunis; Hushiel in silken blouse and short black trousers, with mantle and fez such as Mohammedans wear, his little sister, Peninah, a quaint picture in her short jacket, baggy trousers and pointed cap. No wonder the old family servant, who had gasped when admitting them, had gone off to summon his master, declaring to himself that these visitors looked even more heathenish than the painted Indians who occasionally called upon Mr. Noah at his Buffalo home.

"Do sit down, Peninah," suggested the boy in a half-whisper, too overawed by the elegant furnishings and long rows of books to speak out loud. He pointed to a tall, carved arm chair but Peninah shook her head and clung more tightly to his arm.

"It's all so strange," she whispered back, "just like an old tale Nissim, the story teller, used to tell sometimes at home—all of it, the big ship, and the many people when we came on shore in New York and this room—" with a gesture towards the table on which stood a tea service of heavy silver. "He must be a prince to have such treasures. Aren't you afraid to speak to him when he comes in?"

"A man is never afraid," answered twelve-year-old Hushiel, stoutly. "He may not remember me, but I am my father's son and he will do us kindness for his sake." He stopped suddenly as Mr. Mordecai Noah entered the room.

The master of the house was about forty, with deep, kindly eyes and a heavy mane of black hair brushed back from his benevolent forehead. He carried himself with the dignity befitting an author and statesman who was, perhaps, the most distinguished Jew in America in 1825. Yet in spite of his touch of hauteur there was a real kindliness in the manner in which he held out his hands to the strangers and bade them welcome.

"You have come a long way," he said, with a quick glance at their foreign garb. "Let me make you welcome to America." He drew them to one of the carved settles he had brought from England and seated himself in the great armchair before it, smiling at the quaint picture little Peninah made, her slippered feet dangling high above the floor. "And how can I serve you?" he asked graciously.

Hushiel felt his shyness disappearing before the great man's courtesy. "We are from Tunis," he answered, "and you may remember me, though I was but a tiny lad when you were the American consul there and visited my father about ten years ago. My father was Rabbi Reuben Faitusi," he added, not a little disappointed as the loved name failed to awaken any memories in the eyes of the man before him.

"I met so many rabbis while I was in the East," apologized Mr. Noah, "that the name means nothing to me for a moment. But if I were to meet your father again I am sure I should know him at once," he ended politely.

"My father died six months ago," answered the boy, "my mother when she was born," and he nodded toward Peninah, who sat clutching his sleeve in her pretty bashfulness. "Before he died he told me how you visited our house and spoke long and bitterly of the persecution of our brethren which you had encountered through Europe and Africa on your travels. My father knew of what you spoke only too well, for the lot of our people has often been a harsh one in Tunis. And we have suffered for a long time." He drew himself up proudly. "My father's house are of the Tunsi, who some believe have been in the land for centuries—even before the First Temple was destroyed. And he told me what it meant for him to listen to the words of a stranger from a new land which was a land of hope for our ancient people."

A satisfied smile played about Noah's lips. "Yes, he was like so many others," he nodded, "thirsty for the message of comfort I brought my brethren across the seas. For, as I told him, I dreamed even then that this America of mine would be a Land of Promise for the Jews over the entire earth and that I might be permitted to be the Messiah to lead them here."

Hushiel tried not to look shocked. He had heard too many tales of the Messiah, the princely leader of the House of David, who would some day appear in all his glorious might to restore the Chosen People to their own country, not to wonder how even this powerful prince in Israel should dare to use his name so lightly. But his eyes sparkled at the memories his host's words had awakened.

"My father spoke to me of his talk with you many times," he told Mr. Noah, "and how he dreamed that he might come to dwell in the city of refuge you planned for our people. And he promised to take me and her," with a gesture toward Peninah, who nodded vigorously. "But his eyes closed before he could behold our return. Year by year he had saved a little to make the journey; this he gave me and to it I added my mite that I had laid aside from my earnings as a mechanic; then I sold our household goods and came with Peninah to you that we might be among the first to enter your city, even as our father wished us to be."

A strange look crept into Mr. Noah's eyes; a look of exultation and joy; he seemed for a moment like a man who sees a great hope fulfilled and is glad. "Your father had the faith of God in his heart," he said at last, "and you two are worthy of being called his children. Sometimes I myself have doubted whether I could forge my dream into reality. But when you come to me with your young and fearless hearts, trusting so in my mission, I must believe that I cannot fail. And you seem to have been sent here by a miracle. All through the ten years since I was consul to Tunis I have planned for a city of refuge for our people. Perhaps some day we will return to Palestine, but meanwhile—" he made a sweeping gesture—"meanwhile the virgin wilderness of this land awaits our people. Here we will build and plough; here we will launch our trading vessels—the Phoenicians of the New World." He had forgotten his listeners and spoke as though addressing a great multitude. "And others have shared my dreams. My good friend, Samuel Leggett, although a Christian, has seen my vision, and has aided me with his sympathy—and his gold." His dream-filled eyes actually twinkled and now he spoke simply with no thought of a vast audience to listen. "I am grateful for his sympathy, but his gold—with my own private fortune—helped me even more. With it I have purchased a great tract of land on the Niagara River for the site of our Jewish colony. Yes," he repeated, proudly, "I have purchased over two thousand acres of land on Grand Island. Persecuted Jews from all over the world will plant their farms there. And some day it will be one of the greatest commercial centers of the world, as well as a farming colony, for it lies close to the Great Lakes and opposite the new Erie Canal, through which our vessels loaded with the produce of our farms will sail to feed the nations."

He paused for breath and Hushiel nodded, understanding but little the reason of his hosts' enthusiasm, but at least grasping the fact that the city of refuge of which his father had dreamed so long was about to be built.

"And what will you call your city?" he ventured.

"Ararat," answered the founder. "Some of my friends have tried to persuade me to name it after myself; this I would not do, but since I would have future generations know of my share in the building of the city, I shall call it Ararat, which they may interpret as the city of Noah. But above all would I remind all that hear its name that it is a city of refuge, even as the mountain Ararat was a place of safety after the flood which destroyed the earth in the days of Noah of old. Our people, tossed for so long upon the seas of bitterness and hatred, will rest here as the ark rested upon the mountain Ararat when the waters of the flood subsided."

"But will only Jews be welcome there?"

"It will be as open as Abraham's tent to every wanderer who seeks shelter there," replied Mordecai Noah with a magnificent gesture. "Especially to our brethren, the Indians. For I firmly believe," he went on, not pausing to think that the boy from across the seas could not possibly understand him, "I firmly believe that the red men are descended from the lost tribes of Israel and are ready to extend to us the hand of brotherhood and forsake their own gods for the God of our fathers. You have never seen our Indian brothers?" Hushiel shook his head, but Peninah, thoroughly worn out by her journey and the long talk which she could not comprehend, had fallen asleep and could not answer. "Then you will see them for the first time at the dedication ceremony of our city of Ararat," he promised graciously.

"And when will the city be dedicated?" The boy's tone was eager.

"Next week. And I will take both of you to Buffalo with me that you may see the ceremonies. You see you have come in good time," answered Mr. Mordecai Noah.

* * * * *

"But I won't go in these clothes," objected Peninah hotly.

For almost a week she and her brother had been guests in Mr. Noah's household, and every day one or another of his Christian or Jewish friends had come to visit them. They were very wonderful people, these Americans, thought Peninah, and most wonderful of all were the little girls of her own age, with their full skirts and dainty bonnets. True, they had never seen the Sahara Desert or crossed the mysterious ocean, yet she envied them their pretty clothes, feeling outlandishly queer in her pointed cap and baggy trousers. Mr. Noah had been very kind to her; he had brought her several pretty trinkets and a box of sweetmeats, almost as good as those one could buy in the bazaar at home, she told Hushiel—but on one point he was firm and nothing could move him.

"Tomorrow will be a great day for every Jew upon the face of the earth," he had told the children the evening before the day set for the dedication ceremonies for which he had brought them to Buffalo. "I should like to purchase a little present for each of you, some token that you may show your children some day when you tell them of the founding of Ararat, my city. What shall it be?" he asked, smiling into their eager faces.

"You have given us too much already, more than we can ever repay," protested Hushiel, but his modest answer was quite drowned by Peninah's shrill:

"I want a new dress and a bonnet with strings and slippers like the little American girls wear!"

"Peninah! Aren't you ashamed to ask for so much," chided her brother.

"And I want a little black silk bag to carry tomorrow," went on Peninah, unabashed. "And I think I'd like blue ribbons on the bonnet."

Mr. Noah smiled indulgently, but he shook his head. "I will get you an outfit such as little American girls wear," he promised, kindly, "but you must not wear it tomorrow."

Peninah stared at him. "But I want them for tomorrow," she protested. "All the little girls I have met here in your house are coming tomorrow and if I am dressed as they are, they will not stare at me as though I were a dancing girl at a fair. I'm going to take off these," she tugged angrily at the bright beads about her neck, "and these," and she gave a defiant twitch to her hated Oriental trousers.

"Your clothes are very pretty," soothed Mr. Noah, "but if you prefer to dress like the people of our country, I will buy you everything you need. Only tomorrow you must wear the clothes you wore at home—even if the people stare."

"But why?—I look so different——"

"It is just because your clothes are so different," explained Mordecai Noah patiently, "that I want you to wear them. My dream is to have our city a refuge for the Jews of all the nations of the earth. Many people of Buffalo have heard your story, but they have not seen you. When they see you and Hushiel in your native dress, it will impress them greatly as they realize that even the children of the lands far across the sea have sought my city and long to make their home there. You understand, don't you?"

Hushiel nodded, but Peninah stamped her small, slippered foot angrily. "I won't go if I have to wear these horrid clothes which make people stare at me," she declared angrily, and ran from the room, crying as she went. Mr. Noah seemed really disturbed and was about to call her back, but Hushiel only laughed a little and shrugged at her anger.

"'The camel wanted to have horns, so he lost his ears for his greediness'," he quoted in Hebrew. "It is hard to satisfy a woman. Just let her have her cry and she will be as gentle as a lamb in the morning."

But Peninah was decidedly sulky at breakfast the next morning and as the hour to attend the dedication ceremony drew near she grew actually violent in declaring that she wouldn't leave the house to be "a show thing for all those strange people to look at!" "They can look at you, Hushiel, all they want to," she exclaimed, "but I won't go out into the streets until I have new clothes!" She folded her small arms defiantly and glared angrily at her brother.

Hushiel, usually patient and long-suffering, was now really angry. He grasped her shoulders and shook her so energetically that her bright beads rattled merrily together. "Now listen to me," he began sternly, as he released her, and she stood gasping for breath, staring at him with eyes wide with hurt astonishment. "I've been listening to your foolish words till I'm tired. So you must listen to me now and obey me for I take our father's place in our household, don't I?" She nodded sullenly, for she knew that in their native country a lad as young as Hushiel would be considered grown to manhood. "If he were here today he would command you to dry your foolish tears and come to the place where they are celebrating the founding of our new city. If he who has given us so many gifts and welcomes us to his home desires you to go there in your native dress, you will obey him. Else you will have to deal with me," and he scowled so fiercely, that even the dauntless Peninah was a little frightened. "Besides," he ended, craftily, "you are so anxious to see the Indians and Mr. Noah himself has promised that there will be red men at the great festival today."

With a shrug of elaborate carelessness which didn't deceive her brother in the least, Peninah dried her eyes and began to smooth her rumpled attire. "I'll go," she said, indifferently, "but not because I have to obey you. It's just because I do want to see those Indians."

Peninah's wish was gratified, for there was a goodly sprinkling of red men at the dedication ceremonies of the city of Ararat held in Buffalo on that bright September day so long ago. So many citizens had expressed their desire to be present that it was discovered that it would be impossible to secure enough boats to convey them to Grand Island. So, although a monument was erected on the spot where the city of Ararat was to be built, the dedication ceremonies were held in the large Episcopalian church of Buffalo, which was soon crowded with those who either wished Mr. Noah success in his strange undertaking or were drawn by idle curiosity to witness the festival.

Neither of the children from Tunis ever forgot that day. First there was the long and impressive procession down the main streets of Buffalo, led by a band of musicians playing stirring melodies all the while. After the musicians came companies of soldiers, many of whom had distinguished themselves in the war of 1812, in which conflict Noah had received the rank of major; behind them, garbed in their picturesque regalia, walked several companies of Masons, for Mr. Noah was a prominent member of that organization; and then came Mordecai Noah himself, wearing a magnificent robe of crimson silk trimmed with bands of ermine. Behind the Governor and Judge of Israel, as he styled himself, followed men prominent in the affairs of the city and state, a distinguished company, all eager to show their interest in the proposed Jewish city of refuge. At last the procession filed slowly into the church. The dim, rich light struggling through the stained windows fell like an enchanted robe upon those who had marched and those who were gathered there; it was a picture the like of which has never been seen in America since that day.

The two children from across the seas sat wide-eyed as they looked about them. The citizens of Buffalo, the richly garbed officials and soldiers who had marched in the procession, above all, the Indians in their feathers and blankets and beads, stern-faced and tall and slender, seemed people from another world. For a moment Hushiel was troubled: would his father think it right for him to attend a Christian church even on such a day? Then he forgot his scruples as Mordecai Noah, still in his crimson mantle, advanced on the platform to speak to the people. The boy looked from his regal figure on the Christian clergymen in their dark, plain robes, and his heart thrilled with pride. Mordecai Noah, he thought, stood head and shoulders above all other men, as Israel, under his wise guidance, would some day stand above the nations. He heard not a word of the long oration that followed. Instead he dreamed of the city which would arise on Grand Island, a city as mighty as Jerusalem of old, and in his dream he saw the nations of the earth entering its gates to pay tribute to its crimson-clad king. So he happily built his city of the clouds until the ceremonies were almost over and a salute of twenty-four guns made little Peninah start with terror and cling to him, crying aloud in her fright.

And now came busy, happy days for Hushiel and Peninah. Peninah, dressed "just like a little American girl," as she proudly told herself a dozen times a day, was sent to a school. But Mr. Noah, really interested in Hushiel, undertook to teach him himself, delighting in the boy's fine mind, so well trained by his long Talmudic studies with his father. As soon as he learned to read and write English, the lad proved to be of great assistance to his benefactor, copying Mr. Noah's manuscripts for the press, for that gentleman was an eminent journalist and one of the most popular dramatists of his day, and, in time, even assisting him with his foreign correspondence.

The letters from abroad grew extremely heavy, for directly after the dedication ceremonies, Mr. Noah, as self-appointed Judge of Israel, sent a proclamation to all of the leading Jewish communities of the world, declaring that Ararat was established and inviting citizens of every country to come and make their home there. Those who were content in their adopted lands, he wrote, might remain in their homes, and he begged all Jewish soldiers in foreign armies to remember that the Jew must be true to the obligation of the state in which he lives. But he urged every loyal Jew who longed for the restoration of Israel's glory to pay a yearly tax of three shekels (ancient Jewish coin worth about a quarter in our currency) and to appoint deputies in their respective countries who would elect a new ruler or Judge of the Jewish state every fourth year. And that the new state should be thoroughly democratic, Mordecai Noah appointed influential Jews in every important Jewish community to act as his commissioners in governing the city of Ararat.

To Hushiel the proclamation seemed all that could be desired and he waited eagerly for the warm response he felt must come from every Jew to whom Noah appealed. But to his great surprise, the post brought letter after letter either of ridicule or denunciation; even the Jews who lived in the countries of darkest persecution refused to listen to his offer of a home in the new Jewish colony. True, many of them longed to emigrate to America, the land which had been a place of refuge to their brothers for so many years. Others dreamed of a return to Palestine, willing to live there as exiles in their homeland until the coming of the Messiah brought Israel's freedom. Letter after letter from across the seas refused to aid Noah in his dream for Jewish emancipation. "We are happy in our adopted land," wrote one. "When God in His mercy sends the Messiah, then will He lead Israel back to the Promised Land, Palestine, and not before," wrote another. While the Jews of America, in their pride as American citizens, were as swift as their brethren abroad to ridicule Noah's plans for Ararat, denouncing them as impious or impractical.

But the boy's faith in the project never wavered. He did not venture to offer his master sympathy for his disappointment, but in his shy, boyish way, he did manage to assure Noah again and again that he still believed in the city of refuge and longed to dwell there. And Noah never failed to smile at his half-uttered assurances, although he never answered them directly. Once he kindly placed his hand upon the boy's shoulder and Hushiel felt as proud as a young squire whom his master had dubbed knight.

Gradually the correspondence concerning Ararat diminished and finally it ceased altogether. Mordecai Noah made no comment; there was still plenty of work for Hushiel with the newspaper articles; he also copied portions of the Book of Jasher which Mr. Noah was translating from the Hebrew. So the two labored together day after day, but neither even mentioned the dream that had called Hushiel across the seas.

"I am going to Washington on business," his master informed Hushiel one morning as they sat in his study, ready to begin work on the day's tasks. "I may be gone for some time. You have been working hard and faithfully," he added kindly, "and you deserve a holiday. Would you care to go to Washington with me?"

Hushiel answered with difficulty, his eyes seeking the floor, for suddenly a daring idea had captured his brain. "You are very kind," he stammered, "but—if I might—may I spend my holiday as I please, if I am back at my tasks in time?"

"Surely." Noah's hand sought his wallet. "Here is money. Give Peninah a little treat, too, and do not hurry back to your desk too soon. When you are ready for work again, you will find plenty of manuscript which I will leave for you to copy during my absence. I think I will be gone a fortnight."

"My holiday will not last that long," answered the boy, turning back to his papers. "And, please sir, do not mention this to Peninah. I will buy her some pleasure with the money you have just given me. But I must have my holiday alone."

So Hushiel was alone when he stood before the monument of brick and wood which had been erected on Grand Island, the proposed site of the city of Ararat. To the lad, unused to the wilderness of America, the journey down the river had been a fascinating one. Now he stood alone in the vast silence, broken only by the roar of the Falls in the distance. How long he stood here before the pile of bricks and wood Hushiel never knew. When he tried to recall the scene years afterwards, he pictured clearly a slender, dark-skinned boy lying upon the ground, weeping bitterly as he listened to the rumblings of Niagara which seemed to mock him as he grieved for the city which had perished at its birth. For now he realized without a word from Mordecai Noah that the dream had failed—that his people must wait a little longer for a real Messiah to lead them into the Land of Promise. Bitterest of all, even more bitter than the breaking of his dream, was the realization that Mordecai Noah, for all his lofty ideals, his generous motives, was not of the stuff of which leaders are made. His voice, no matter how eloquent, would never be heeded should he again seek to call the wandering children of Israel together. And thinking of these things, the boy wept like a little child.

Years later, when the monument on Grand Island had fallen into decay, Hushiel saw the cornerstone of the dream city, Ararat, displayed in one of the rooms of the Buffalo Historical Society. He was no longer a sensitive boy, yet the tears sprang to his eyes as he re-read the old inscription which you may still read if you visit the Society's rooms today: "Shema Yisroel, Adonoi Elohenu, Adonoi Echod (Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is One). Ararat, a City of Refuge for the Jews, Founded by Mr. M. Noah in the month Tishri, 5586, Sept., 1825, and in the 50th year of American Independence."



THREE AT GRACE

The Story of the First Jewish Settler in Alabama.

Colonel Hawkins, the Indian agent for the government at Pole Cat Springs, Alabama, in 1804, leaned across the pine table to extend a cordial hand to his visitor. Abram Mordecai, who stood before him, although almost fifty, gave one the impression of a much younger man. Lean and lithe as a panther, with shaggy black hair and keen eyes, his distinctly Jewish features were so tanned and weather-beaten that he looked far more the Indian than the Jew. He nodded gayly to his employer before he flung himself into a chair, his gun-stock between his knees, his great brown hands clasped behind his head. As he sat there dressed in the buckskin shirt and trousers of his half-civilized Indian neighbors, every free movement of his large body suggesting his life in the wilderness, the Jewish adventurer presented a perfect picture of the pioneer of his day.

"I have come, Colonel Hawkins," he began in his usual abrupt manner, "to ask your help in building a cotton gin. Yes," as the other showed surprise, "I know the enterprise seems a strange one for a rover like me to suggest, and, perhaps, a foolish undertaking in the wilderness. Yet the wilderness must pass and we must build now for the days to come."

"Go on, Mordecai," encouraged his chief. "What are your plans?"

"I know how eager you are to civilize the Indians in our region and teach them the arts of peace," went on Mordecai. "Thus far we have done nothing but trade with them for pelties and healing barks and oils. But could we not have the squaws raise the cotton and bring it down the river in their canoes and prepare it in our gin for the market in New Orleans?"

"Good." Hawkins nodded approvingly. "First we must gain permission of the Hickory Ground Indians for the erection of our gin, for it will not be wise to risk their enmity at the outset. But there is not another gin in the state. Where shall we find a pattern; where shall we get the workmen to fashion one for us; or the needed tools?"

"I have thought of that," Abram Mordecai told him. "There are two Jews of Georgia, Lyon and Barrett, who have both the tools and the skill for the task. I met Lyon when we were both young men serving in the army under General Washington. You can rely upon him for faithful service."

A little smile curved the agent's lips. "You Jews!" he exclaimed. "Is there any enterprise in which you have not had a hand? Even back to the building of the pyramids in old Egypt! It is like a Jew to plan the first cotton gin in Alabama—and to bring two of his race to build it."

"We are indeed builders," answered Mordecai a little dryly, "but not always for ourselves." He rose. "Shall I send for them?"

"The sooner the better. And it will be good to meet your fellow Hebrews again, eh, Mordecai?"

Abram Mordecai, already at the door, turned a moment. His eyes, a striking hazel in the tan of his roughened face, grew wistful for a moment. "I am more Indian than Jew, more savage than white man," he answered gravely. "Perhaps it is a pity," and he was gone.

Mordecai, the child of the wilderness, where the struggle against savage and beast of prey sharpen the wits and teach the pioneer the need for rapid decisions, lost no time in executing his commission. As soon as word could reach Lyon, he informed his old comrade of the work he had in mind for him. The next post told Mordecai that the two men with their tools, gin saws and other materials loaded upon pack horses, were already on their way to Alabama. He waited eagerly for their arrival. The gin meant more to him than a source of revenue, were he successful in the cotton market. For, as Hawkins had observed, the Jew was not content to be a mere trader and hunter, like so many adventurers of the back woods. He longed to build, to create something lasting even in that ever-changing wilderness. And perhaps, mingled with his impatience, was a queer longing to see his own again, not merely white men like Colonel Hawkins, but Jews such as he had known before leaving his native Pennsylvania so many years ago. He smiled to find himself actually counting the days before he could expect Lyon and Barrett to arrive.

They came at last one evening near sunset, two brown-skinned rovers in half-savage dress affected by the backwoodsmen of that day; Lyon, grave and silent, Barrett, with a boy's laugh, despite the sprinkling of gray in his curly hair. Mordecai stood at the door of his hut to greet them. A little behind him, humbly respectful like all the women of her nation to her lord and master, stood a squaw clad in a blanket with strings of beads woven in the long, dark braids of her hair. Her bright, black eyes sparkled with interest as she surveyed the strangers; but as they came nearer, she turned quickly and went back into the hut, where she continued to prepare the evening meal. But Mordecai advanced toward the travellers, his hand extended in welcome.

"Shalom Aleichem," he began, his tongue faltering a little over the old Hebrew greeting he had not used for so long. "I am glad you have come at last."

"Aleichem Shalom," answered Lyon. "It is long since we have met, Abram Mordecai." He took his old comrade's outstretched hand and indicated Barrett with a curt nod. "My friend," he said, briefly. "He will help us build the gin."

"You are both welcome," their host assured them. "Becky," he called, and the Indian woman appeared at the door, "unload the horses and bed them for the night with ours," and he indicated a roughly constructed barn a little way from the hut which it so resembled. "But first bring a pail of fresh water from the spring that these gentlemen may wash after their journey."

Becky, still devouring the newcomers with her eyes, curiously, like those of an inquisitive squirrel, caught up a wooden bucket that stood by the open door and started down the winding path that led to the spring. "My wife," explained Mordecai, pretending not to see the look of surprise with which his former friend Lyon greeted his statement. "Yes," half in apology, "I know it seems strange to you. But for so many years I felt myself a part of the Creek nation, that when I was ill with malarial fever and she nursed me back to health, I was glad to lessen my loneliness and make her my wife according to the customs of her people. Yet," and he smiled a little bitterly, "yet, strange as it may seem, I still remember that I am a Jew."

He led them into the little cabin with its one window and floor of clay. At one end stood a rude fireplace made of bricks where a huge kettle swung Indian-fashion above the logs. At the other end of the room several heavy blankets indicated a bed, the only furniture being a few rough chairs, a table and an old trunk half covered by a gayly striped blanket such as Indian women weave. "A rough place, even for the wilderness," confessed Mordecai, "but I dare attempt no better. Of late, the Indians once so friendly, have grown surly and suspicious; they rightly fear that the white man will wrench the wilderness from them. Especially Towerculla, a neighboring chief, who hates the ways of the whites and has been murmuring against me ever since he has heard that a cotton gin will be erected through my agency. So who knows when I will be driven from this place by the red men—providing that they allow me to escape with my life."

"And have you no white neighbors?" asked Barrett, who had seated himself upon the trunk, where he sat loosening his dusty leggins.

"There is 'Old Milly'." Mordecai's hazel eyes twinkled a little. "She is the wife of an English soldier who deserted from the army during the Revolution. After her husband's death she took up her abode here. She is a woman of strong and resolute character and has considerable power over the Indians of this district, who stand greatly in awe of her. She lately married a red man and is really a great person in our little community, for she owns several slaves and many horses and cattle. Tomorrow I will introduce you to my only white neighbor. But here is Becky with the water," as the squaw entered with the brimming pail. "Wash the dust from your faces that we may sit and eat, for you must be nearly famished."

The travelers, having washed in the wooden basin that stood on one of the chairs and shaken some of the dust from their garments, now came eagerly enough to the table, which the silent Becky had prepared for them. Upon the bare boards she had set several mugs and heavy crockery bowls, pewter forks and a large, steaming vessel of the stew which she had taken from the fire, as well as several cakes made of corn flour and cooked in the ashes. Such fare was familiar enough to the pioneers, but the two guests could not help staring at the book that lay at each plate, a worn Sidur (prayer book), the ancient Hebrew characters looking strangely foreign in the primitive forests of America. Abram Mordecai saw the two men exchange glances and flushed a little beneath his tan.

"A foolish thought of mine," he murmured. "When I left my father's house in Pennsylvania I carried one of these in my pack, wrapped in the talith (praying shawl), he had brought with him from Germany. And later I found the two others in the bundle of a Jewish peddlar murdered by the Indians. The Indian agent at St. Mary's sent me to ransom him and several other captives taken by the Creeks, but I came too late. Somehow, I could not bear to throw them away or destroy them. They have been with me in all my wanderings and more than once when I thought it about time for the fall holy days have I read the prayers and wished that I might have a few of my brethren with me to observe them aright. And tonight—" for a moment the confident, self-reliant adventurer seemed as embarrassed as a bashful child, "and tonight I hoped that since there would be three of us at grace, we might read the benedictions together—if you care to—and I would know how it feels to be a Jew again."

Barrett laughed, his hearty school boy laugh, as he flung himself unceremoniously into a chair beside the table. "It's many a day since I've said or heard a brocha (blessing)," he said, "but I'll go through it without any book, thank you."

Lyon said nothing, as he took the place Mordecai assigned him at the foot of the table, but there was a tender look about his grave mouth. Perhaps he realized how difficult it had been for Mordecai to confess his loneliness for the customs of his people; but, according to his wont, he said nothing.

Smiling almost childishly, Mordecai passed a bowl of water to each of his guests that they might wash their hands, which they did, murmuring the blessing as they did so. Then, taking his place at the head of the table, he poured water over his own hands, saying the Hebrew benediction as he wiped them upon a faded red napkin which lay beside his Sidur. Somehow, after his brief confession, he felt ashamed to tell his guests that the napkin had belonged to his mother and had rested beside the neglected Sidur for so many years. Then, breaking a bit from the bread and handing it to each of the men, he repeated the blessing for which, although he had not recited it for so many years, he need no prompting from the worn black book beside his plate.

"Blessed art thou, O Lord our God, King of the universe, who bringest forth bread from the earth," he said in Hebrew.

Becky, as her husband called her, stood in the background as silent as a bronze statute until the little ceremony was over. If she was impressed by the strangeness of it all, she gave no sign. For so many of the customs of her husband's alien race were strange to her that she had long ago ceased to wonder or desire any explanation. Now at a sign from Mordecai, she took away the bowl of water, and, filling a plate with the savoury stew, took it to the corner of the hut, here, crouched upon the blankets, she ate her supper, quite content to watch the white strangers from a distance.

Mordecai served his guests, then himself, and over the stew and corn bread the men exchanged stories of their experiences in the wilderness. The host told a little of his own adventures since leaving the east, of his life as a trader with the Indians, of the peace treaty he had brought about with the Chickasaw nation, of his journeys south to New Orleans and Mobile, his furs and medicinal barks piled high in the barge with no companions but the painted savages to assist him. A life of highly-colored adventure with variety enough to satisfy any spirit, but even now Mordecai was growing restless and longed for another enterprise to occupy him after the cotton gin should be completed.

Then, the meal being over, Mordecai, with the same shamefaced bashfulness he had shown when speaking of the Sidurim, turned the pages of the book, saying almost wistfully: "I know that tonight is not a festival or Sabbath with us, gentlemen, but if you would care to go over the psalm with me——"

"We've been waiting a long time for this and we'll give good measure," laughed little Barrett, but his eyes did not jest as Mordecai in the quaint old sing-song of the synagogue began "When the Lord turned again the captivity of Zion" and Lyon gravely followed.

"And now," Mordecai's face fairly glowed with pleasure, "now we will have the special grace, since there are three of us at the table."

"Let us say grace," he began, with hardly a look at the Hebrew.

"Blessed be the name of the Lord from this time forth and forever," responded his guests.

"With the permission of those present," went on the host, "we will bless Him of whose bounty we have partaken."

"Blessed be He of whose bounty we have partaken," answered the others, "and through whose goodness we live."

As Mordecai repeated the Hebrew phrases, learned in his almost forgotten Cheder (Hebrew School) days, a great longing came upon him and the tears coursed down his cheeks. To return again to this home, to keep the customs of his people and to die at last with Jewish friends about him and the Hebrew's declaration of faith upon his lips! But, as he closed the book, his eyes glanced about the little room and they grew dark with pain. The gun standing in the corner, the furs drying upon the wall, Becky crouching upon the blankets—all spoke to him of a life he had lived too long to exchange for the quiet existence of which he sometimes dreamed. He rose, and, with an abrupt gesture, pointed to a shaggy robe before the fire place.

"I have no better bed to offer you," he said, "but I know you are not used to a soft couch. You must be tired from your journey. Becky will tend to your horses so you had better sleep now, that tomorrow we may start out early and visit Colonel Hawkins. He would see you before you begin work on the cotton gin."

The cotton gin, the first to be built in Alabama, was completed in due time, and Barrett and Lyons, their pack horses again loaded with their tools, were ready to return to Georgia. If Mordecai felt any pain at having his co-religionists depart, he was skilful in concealing it. For, after his confidence over the supper table, he had slipped back into his stoical reserve and not even the taciturn Lyon was more silent or chary of speech in anything that did not directly concern the business in hand. So it was merry little Barrett who alone mentioned the occasion that for a moment had brought the strangers of the wilderness together and had made them brothers.

"We'll be coming back again when we want a taste of Becky's good stew—and a blessing afterwards," he jested as he swung himself into his saddle and reached down to shake hands with Mordecai.

"Or to build another gin if the Indians do not molest this one and drive me off," answered Mordecai lightly, but the jest lingered in his mind. His life among the superstitious savages, his solitary hours in the wilderness, had helped to tinge his shrewd, practical mind with a strong mysticism. He tried to dismiss the matter; but, as he walked back to his hut that evening, Barrett's light words haunted him and gave him no rest. "Perhaps," he muttered, "perhaps, before my life is over, we will meet again and there will be three of us at grace."

But his fancies fled and his dreamy face grew hard and alert as he came to the clearing before his hut. There, in the midst of his Indian followers, all armed with long poles, stood Chief Towerculla, threatening Becky. The squaw had placed herself in the door of the hut, where she stood with folded arms, listening to the Chief's angry threats. If she felt any fear, there was no trace of it in her expressionless face. Nor did she seem relieved when Mordecai pushed between her and the angry Indian and demanded what business had brought him there. She merely shrugged a little, hitched up her buckskin skirt and resumed her task of pounding corn between two stones at the door of the hut, appearing to take no interest in the quarrel that followed. For like a good squaw, she did not think it seemly to interfere in her husband's business affairs.

"And now, Towerculla," began Mordecai in the Indian tongue which he spoke fluently. "Why do you come here and seek to frighten my squaw in my absence? And why have you brought your men with you?"

The Chief grunted in disgust. "And why do you bring the pale face here to build?" he answered Mordecai question for question. "Our squaws are well satisfied to work in the fields, to make oil from the hickory nuts, to weave blankets. But you would have them sell you cotton to make you rich; you would build a store and other white men would be greedy to trade with our women and build other gins and other stores—and soon there would be many of your people while we—" he waved his hand toward his warriors, "we children of the red men would be driven further into the wilderness. You have already driven us too far, you white men. I am willing to spare you for the sake of 'Old Milly,' whom we do not fear, for she is one of us. And she has pleaded for you more than once. So I will allow you and your squaw to depart in peace. By tomorrow morning leave for some other place—for it is not good to dwell here any longer."

For a moment Mordecai was too astonished to answer. Then he laughed boldly into the Indian's angry face. Towerculla sprang for him, but Mordecai swiftly stepped aside, and crouching, sprung upon the Chief and struck him to the ground. For a minute the two struggled together. Then the Indians fell upon Mordecai and released Towerculla, who rose from the dust, his face terrible in his anger. Mordecai struggled in vain against the blows of Towerculla's followers. As he sank to the ground overpowered, he caught himself murmuring, "They cannot kill me, until we three say grace together again," even while he longed for death to cut short the agony which was beginning to wrack every limb of his cruelly beaten body. Then out of the mist of red which seemed to swim before his eyes, a merciful black cloud descended and he knew nothing more until he regained consciousness and found himself in "Old Milly's" cabin, with Becky, still calm of face and quiet of voice bathing his wounds with cool water from the spring.

"What has happened?" he asked, trying to rise, but falling back moaning in his pain.

"Old Milly," a tall, sharp-faced woman, who sat weaving a basket as skillfully as any squaw, answered him. "Towerculla would have slain you, had not Becky brought me in time. He is not a good enemy to have, Abram Mordecai. When you are stronger, you must take his advice and go away. The Indians did not burn the barn, so your horses are safe, but the house was in flames before I could reach it and persuade Towerculla to leave you in peace."

Becky rose and walked to the table. Returning to where her husband lay, she placed in his hand three books with worn black covers and a faded red napkin. "I ran and got these when I saw they were destroying our cabin," she told him. "I knew you had kept them long; that they were dear to you as the gods of our people are to us—like a charm, maybe, to keep death away. And perhaps, when the white men come again, you will want to have them on the table and sing."

For the moment, Mordecai forgot that Becky was only a squaw, undeserving, according to the custom of her people, either thanks or praise. "You are a very good wife," he said, gently, "and I will buy you real gold earrings with the first money I earn from the cotton gin." And since he was so weak, neither woman dared to tell him for several days that the vengeance of the Indians had extended to the gin house, which now lay a heap of black ruins hear the river.

Broken in body and ruined in fortune, Mordecai accompanied by the faithful Becky, bade farewell to Colonel Hawkins and journeyed further into the wilderness. For the Indian agent prudently refused to erect a second gin while the Indians still planned to injure Mordecai, and the adventurer himself felt that it would be hopeless to seek to gain the friendship of the embittered Chief. Trader and trapper, he led his solitary existence in the south, with no companionship but Becky's, until her death left him entirely alone.

He had regained his former vigor by this time and sometimes dreamed of returning to his boyhood home. But from the pioneer towns springing up wherever he passed, he knew that a new civilization was rising in America; that he was of the generation that must pass away as surely as the Indian and he realized that he would feel sadly out of place in the surroundings that he had known as a boy. Yet, dreamer that he was, he never ceased to picture himself, a sober stay-at-home citizen, living out the last years of his life in communion with his fellow Jews, who had never left their quiet firesides. Nor in all his wanderings did he ever part with the three Sidurim and the faded red napkin. For as he grew older, the fantastic notion grew ever stronger that before he died he would again say grace with the builders of his cotton gin.

Almost a century old, he wandered back at last to Montgomery county, seeking the very spot where his hut had stood before Chief Towerculla had driven him away. Now the settlement of Dudlyville, so close at hand, made him feel cramped and uncomfortable. Colonel Hawkins had long since left Pole Cat Springs; Chief Towerculla, driven away by the white men he had always feared, was dead; "Old Milly" no longer lived in her savage kingdom with her husband and her slaves.

But he felt too tired to travel further; perhaps he realized that no matter where he went he would feel lonely as the survivor of another day and generation. So he built a tiny cabin for himself, even putting together some crude furniture. Here he lived, never seeing a human face unless he walked to the village to secure supplies, which the settlers, vaguely touched by his loneliness, never failed to press upon him. He talked to them sometimes of the days before the wilderness had been conquered, speaking too, of the first cotton gin, which the Indians had destroyed. "I love the spot," he used to say, "but it is growing too crowded; yes," with a shake of his white head, "too crowded for one who needs plenty of fresh air to breathe. Next spring I must journey on." But when spring came, he would wait until fall, and again through the long winter. For his old ambition had left him and though his heart still wandered afar through the forests, his feet were too weary to follow it.

But one evening he felt strangely strong and refreshed. He had worked hard all the afternoon cleaning his little hut and now the humble room looked as spotless as spring water and vigorous scrubbing could make it. Even the table and chairs were scoured and the fireplace cleaned, while, to complete the day's task Mordecai had emptied an old barrel in the corner, burning the heap of odds and ends which had accumulated since his return. But now as he stood behind the table he held in his hand three black books and a faded napkin which he could not bring himself to destroy. As he stood there with the rays of the setting sun falling through the open door on his shaggy white head, old memories burned in his faded eyes and a strange, dreamy smile played about his mouth.

"I have found the books—it is time for them to come and say 'grace'," he murmured to himself. "I have put my house in order. I know it is time for me to go away—into the Great Wilderness—but not until we have three at grace once more."

Carefully placing a book at each place, he drew up two chairs and a box, spread the napkin at the head of the table and set out his few poor dishes and humble evening meal. Then he took his place, opened his book and waited. The Hebrew letters seemed strangely blurred; for the first time in his life his keen eyes failed him. But, glancing up, he thought he saw his two guests, Lyon and Barrett in their places waiting for him to begin the blessing before the meal.

"I am ready," he said, and even as he spoke, his head dropped upon the open book and Mordecai's restless spirit was at rest forever.



THE LUCKY STONE

The Adventures of Uriah P. Levy, the First Naval Officer of his Day.

A little brown sand piper scudded along the beach. Uriah Levy, a brown-faced lad who looked several years older than a boy who had just passed his eleventh birthday, lay upon the shore and smiled to see it flirt importantly past him as though in a tremendous hurry to reach its destination. Then his keen eyes turned toward the sea, blue and stainless, as level as the long looking glass in his mother's parlor at home. Several sea gulls skimmed the quiet waters, now rising until their gray-white plumage melted into the clouds, now seeming to float upon the tide. Uriah was a trifle sorry when they disappeared at last, for he loved the sea gulls dearly. They seemed so akin to him in their wild freedom, in their love for the solitary waste of waters. Ever since he could remember, he, too, had loved the sea, since the days when he was a tiny boy, sailing his paper boats to strange ports across the ocean. And tomorrow he was going to sea at last—a real cabin boy in a real vessel! He threw himself back upon the warm sands and with half-closed eyes lay dreaming of the future.

He was aroused from his day dreaming by the strange uneasiness that comes to one who feels that he is being observed. Sitting up, he saw that Ned Allison, a lad whose father owned a fishing shack near by, had come down to the beach and was now standing over him, his hands thrust into the pockets of his ragged trousers, his bare, brown toes kicking among the pebbles at his feet. The newcomer was a few years younger than Levy, a grave, stolid lad with bright, restless eyes.

"Hello, Ned," Uriah greeted him. "Did you know I was going to sea tomorrow?"

"No. You're lucky." The other's tone was delightfully envious of Uriah's good fortune. "I've got to wait till I'm twelve or maybe fifteen, I guess. Father's rheumatism is bad lately and I have to help him. How're you going?" He sank beside Uriah on the sands and gazed longingly over the blue waters.

"I'm going to ship as cabin boy; but I won't be gone long." Uriah couldn't help bragging a little as he told his good fortune. "I'm going to be like Paul Jones and that crowd—if it takes a hundred years."

"You'll be too old then," observed Ned dryly. He began to turn over the heap of pebbles that lay between them. "Now if you were to find an oyster or clam shell with several big pearls you could buy a ship of your own right now and——"

"I'd make you first mate," promised Uriah, generously. Leaning on his elbow, he too began to turn over the pebbles, for like every boy of his years he never gave up hope of finding an oyster shell thickly studded with pearls, each one milk-white and shining and worth a king's ransom. "Yes," he went on, dreamily, "I'd rig out a brig right away and sail the seas till I got tired. First, I guess, I'd clear the Spanish Main of pirates and then I'd visit far-off countries across the ocean. Remember what old Captain Ferguson told us about 'em; palm trees, and naked black men who'll sell you ivory and precious stones for a string of beads or a piece of red cloth? That's what I'd do if I had a ship of my own."

"I think I'd rather go to war," observed Allison with equal seriousness.

"Of course! If there would only be a war with some country or other, I'd like to be captain of the American Navy and capture all the other nation's vessels and tow 'em into port." His eager face clouded. "But I've heard my father say that this country's lucky to have peace after the Revolution; that we have to rest and grow strong. I suppose it isn't any more likely than either of us ever finding a pearl among all these stones." Suddenly he interrupted himself with a shrill whistle of delight. "I found a lucky stone," he exclaimed, "a beauty," holding it up for Ned's inspection. "And I'm going to wear it for luck as long as I'm a sailor." He took a piece of string from his pocket and ran it through one of the holes. "Maybe," he laughed, hanging the charm about his neck, "maybe this is almost as good as finding a pearl. Anyhow, I don't care about being rich as long as I can go to sea."

Uriah Levy stood upon the sea shore, no longer a dreaming boy, but a stalwart youth of twenty. At sixteen he already held the position of first mate after becoming part owner of the brig, "Five Sisters," on which he had made five voyages. It had not been easy for a youth with the down of manhood scarcely visible upon his cheeks to rule a crew gathered in that day from the riff-raff and scum of the sailing-ports. Yet the Jewish lad, who one day was to make it his boast that he had abolished the barbarous custom of corporal punishment from the United States Navy, by resorting to force ruled without difficulty when his lawless seamen once realized his courage and the strength of his fists.

But in the year 1812 the times were still wild times upon the ocean and it was no uncommon thing for a law-abiding crew to grow weary of the restraints of their commander, mutiny and follow the sea after the manner of the pirates who still ruled the Spanish Main. And so, when Uriah P. Levy became master of the schooner, "George Washington," not even his iron discipline was strong enough to withstand the plotting of several of the bolder spirits of his crew. Almost under his very eyes, the mutiny had been hatched and had grown to a head.

Standing upon the lonely sea shore, Uriah recalled the swarthy, leering face of Sam Jones, recently punished for infraction of discipline, and the crooked smile of Martin, he who puffed everlastingly at his pipe and wore a red handkerchief for a turban and earrings of heavy gold. He had known them for the ringleaders in the plot against him, even before they had seized command of the vessel and taken possession of the cabin that they might hold council whether their master should be spared or cast into the sea.

"He's but a boy," Martin had argued. "Let him go. Put him in a boat and set him adrift. We're off the coast of Carolina now and even if he gets there with a whole skin, he's not likely to worry us when we're flying the black flag on the Main."

But Sam Jones had urged instant death. "Let him walk the plank," he suggested, his small eyes glittering with hate. "He's only a boy, but I tell you I'm afraid of him—sore afraid."

Martin laughed scornfully, puffing at his pipe. "I'm willing to take the risk," he declared, "though it's no concern of mine. So let's shake dice and the man who wins will say what's to be done with him."

There in the dimly lighted cabin, Levy with his arms bound behind him, had watched the game of dice as calmly as though his life did not lie in the hands of the two who played for such a ghastly stake. Out on the deck, the mutineers drank and jested and sang uproariously in their new freedom. He wondered if that were to be the end: a short plank, a blow to thrust him into the dark waves of the ocean which he had loved so well. Uriah closed his eyes, swaying a little; but he was quite calm, even smiling, when Jones sneered in disgust:

"Born to hang, will never drown. You win, Martin." He pushed the dice aside and rose to release Levy from his bonds. "Here you," he called to several sailors loitering near the door, "get a small boat ready and set him adrift."

"And put in a pair of oars," added Martin. "Give the lad a fighting chance, can't you? And some bread and a jug of water, too." Somehow he felt suddenly uncomfortable before the boy's quiet gaze. "Aren't you going to thank me?" he half blustered.

"I am an American gentleman," answered Levy, very slowly, "and I hold no speech with outlaws and pirates." And before the astonished mutineer could answer him he followed the sailors from the cabin.

And now his perilous journey was over at last, although his frail boat had been destroyed on the rocks before he reached the shore. An excellent swimmer, Levy had stripped off his shoes and coat and jumped into the water. Cleaving the waves with long powerful strokes, he soon reached land, where for several hours he lay wet and exhausted, so bitterly discouraged that he almost wished Jones had prevailed and cut his throat or forced him to walk the plank. Better to have fallen asleep beneath the waves, he thought, than try to live, a hopeless and a defeated man.