four
guineas, which will serve instead of a formal month's notice, and
will enable you to accept at once my wife's invitation, likewise
enclosed herewith. Your sister seconds Mrs. Goldsmith in the hope
that you will do so. Our tenancy of the Manse only lasts a few
weeks longer, for of course we return for the New Year holidays."

This was the last straw. It was not so much the dismissal that staggered
him, but to be called a genius and an idealist himself--to have his own
orthodoxy impugned--just at this moment, was a rough shock.

"Pinchas!" he said, recovering himself. Pinchas would not look up. His
face was still hidden in his hands. "Pinchas, listen! You are appointed
editor of the paper, instead of me. You are to edit the next number."

Pinchas's head shot up like a catapult. He bounded to his feet, then
bent down again to Raphael's coat-tail and kissed it passionately.

"Ah, my benefactor, my benefactor!" he cried, in a joyous frenzy. "Now
vill I give it to English Judaism. She is in my power. Oh, my
benefactor!"

"No, no," said Raphael, disengaging himself. "I have nothing to do with
it."

"But de paper--she is yours!" said the poet, forgetting his English in
his excitement.

"No, I am only the editor. I have been dismissed, and you are appointed
instead of me."

Pinchas dropped back into his chair like a lump of lead. He hung his
head again and folded his arms.

"Then they get not me for editor," he said moodily.

"Nonsense, why not?" said Raphael, flushing.

"Vat you think me?" Pinchas asked indignantly. "Do you think I have a
stone for a heart like Gideon M.P. or your English stockbrokers and
Rabbis? No, you shall go on being editor. They think you are not able
enough, not orthodox enough--they vant me--but do not fear. I shall not
accept."

"But then what will become of the next number?" remonstrated Raphael,
touched. "I must not edit it."

"Vat you care? Let her die!" cried Pinchas, in gloomy complacency. "You
have made her; vy should she survive you? It is not right another should
valk in your shoes--least of all, _I_."

"But I don't mind--I don't mind a bit," Raphael assured him. Pinchas
shook his head obstinately. "If the paper dies, Sampson will have
nothing to live upon," Raphael reminded him.

"True, vairy true," said the poet, patently beginning to yield. "That
alters things. Ve cannot let Sampson starve."

"No, you see!" said Raphael. "So you must keep i