hat mine was."

The look seemed to seal their secret sympathy.

She went to the piano and sang in a thin but trained soprano. The song
was a ballad with a quaint air full of sadness and heartbreak. To
Raphael, who had never heard the psalmic wails of "The Sons of the
Covenant" or the Polish ditties of Fanny Belcovitch, it seemed also full
of originality. He wished to lose himself in the sweet melancholy, but
Mrs. Goldsmith, who had taken Esther's seat at his side, would not let
him.

"Her own composition--words and music," she whispered. "I wanted her to
publish it, but she is so shy and retiring. Who would think she was the
child of a pauper emigrant, a rough jewel one has picked up and
polished? If you really are going to start a new Jewish paper, she might
be of use to you. And then there is Miss Cissy Levine--you have read her
novels, of course? Sweetly pretty! Do you know, I think we are badly in
want of a new paper, and you are the only man in the community who could
give it us. We want educating, we poor people, we know so little of our
faith and our literature."

"I am so glad you feel the want of it," whispered Raphael, forgetting
Esther in his pleasure at finding a soul yearning for the light.

"Intensely. I suppose it will be advanced?"

Raphael looked at her a moment a little bewildered.

"No, it will be orthodox. It is the orthodox party that supplies the
funds."

A flash of light leaped into Mrs. Goldsmith's eyes.

"I am so glad it is not as I feared." she said. "The rival party has
hitherto monopolized the press, and I was afraid that like most of our
young men of talent you would give it that tendency. Now at last we poor
orthodox will have a voice. It will be written in English?"

"As far as I can," he said, smiling.

"No, you know what I mean. I thought the majority of the orthodox
couldn't read English and that they have their jargon papers. Will you
be able to get a circulation?"

"There are thousands of families in the East End now among whom English
is read if not written. The evening papers sell as well there as
anywhere else in London."

"Bravo!" murmured Mrs. Goldsmith, clapping her hands.

Esther had finished her song. Raphael awoke to the remembrance of her.
But she did not come to him again, sitting down instead on a lounge near
the piano, where Sidney bantered Addie with his most paradoxical
persiflage.

Raphael looked at her. Her expression was abstracted, her eyes had an