ddy"--a sort of paroquet in a bright blue dress, with coral necklace
and earrings, her hair set up in a huge bush--looked as complacently
lively and unrefined as her husband; and by a certain difference from
the mother deepened in Deronda the unwelcome impression that the latter
was not so utterly common a Jewess as to exclude her being the mother
of Mirah. While that thought was glancing through his mind, the boy had
run forward into the shop with an energetic stamp, and setting himself
about four feet from Deronda, with his hands in the pockets of his
miniature knickerbockers, looked at him with a precocious air of
survey. Perhaps it was chiefly with a diplomatic design to linger and
ingratiate himself that Deronda patted the boy's head, saying--

"What is your name, sirrah?"

"Jacob Alexander Cohen," said the small man, with much ease and
distinctness.

"You are not named after your father, then?"

"No, after my grandfather; he sells knives and razors and scissors--my
grandfather does," said Jacob, wishing to impress the stranger with
that high connection. "He gave me this knife." Here a pocket-knife was
drawn forth, and the small fingers, both naturally and artificially
dark, opened two blades and a cork-screw with much quickness.

"Is not that a dangerous plaything?" said Deronda, turning to the
grandmother.

"_He_'ll never hurt himself, bless you!" said she, contemplating her
grandson with placid rapture.

"Have _you_ got a knife?" says Jacob, coming closer. His small voice
was hoarse in its glibness, as if it belonged to an aged commercial
soul, fatigued with bargaining through many generations.

"Yes. Do you want to see it?" said Deronda, taking a small penknife
from his waistcoat-pocket.

Jacob seized it immediately and retreated a little, holding the two
knives in his palms and bending over them in meditative comparison. By
this time the other clients were gone, and the whole family had
gathered to the spot, centering their attention on the marvelous Jacob:
the father, mother, and grandmother behind the counter, with baby held
staggering thereon, and the little girl in front leaning at her
brother's elbow to assist him in looking at the knives.

"Mine's the best," said Jacob, at last, returning Deronda's knife as if
he had been entertaining the idea of exchange and had rejected it.

Father and mother laughed aloud with delight. "You won't find Jacob
choosing the worst," said Mr. Cohen, winking, wi