and said, "Mine was the lot
of Israel. For the sin of the father my soul must go into exile. For
the sin of the father the work was broken, and the day of fulfilment
delayed. She who bore me was desolate, disgraced, destitute. I turned
back. On the instant I turned--her spirit and the spirit of her
fathers, who had worthy Jewish hearts, moved within me, and drew me.
God, in whom dwells the universe, was within me as the strength of
obedience. I turned and traveled with hardship--to save the scant money
which she would need. I left the sunshine, and traveled into freezing
cold. In the last stage I spent a night in exposure to cold and snow.
And that was the beginning of this slow death."

Mordecai let his eyes wander again and removed his hand. Deronda
resolutely repressed the questions which urged themselves within him.
While Mordecai was in this state of emotion, no other confidence must
be sought than what came spontaneously: nay, he himself felt a kindred
emotion which made him dread his own speech as too momentous.

"But I worked. We were destitute--every thing had been seized. And she
was ill: the clutch of anguish was too strong for her, and wrought with
some lurking disease. At times she could not stand for the beating of
her heart, and the images in her brain became as chambers of terror,
where she beheld my sister reared in evil. In the dead of night I heard
her crying for her child. Then I rose, and we stretched forth our arms
together and prayed. We poured forth our souls in desire that Mirah
might be delivered from evil."

"Mirah?" Deronda repeated, wishing to assure, himself that his ears had
not been deceived by a forecasting imagination. "Did you say Mirah?"

"That was my little sister's name. After we had prayed for her, my
mother would rest awhile. It lasted hardly four years, and in the
minute before she died, we were praying the same prayer--I aloud, she
silently. Her soul went out upon its wings."

"Have you never since heard of your sister?" said Deronda, as quietly
as he could.

"Never. Never have I heard whether she was delivered according to our
prayer. I know not, I know not. Who shall say where the pathways lie?
The poisonous will of the wicked is strong. It poisoned my life--it is
slowly stifling this breath. Death delivered my mother, and I felt it a
blessedness that I was alone in the winters of suffering. But what are
the winters now?--they are far off"--here Mordecai again rested his