rop of happiness. Looking at her, it was not
difficult to guess that she would not live--like Freida, wife of the
heretic Hersh--until her hundredth birthday, and that she would not
fall into the eternal sleep little by little, amidst those dear to
her heart--the noise made by numerous children and grandchildren.
Jenta, the wife of the greedy Reb Jankiel, was slain in spirit and
worn out in body.

When the steps of the departing guests, which had for some time
mingled with the snoring of several people fast asleep, became
silent, Eliezer stood in the low door of his room and looked for a
few seconds at his sleeping mother.

"Mother!" he called softly, "why don't you go to bed? Little Hajka is
sleeping for a long time, and she will not cry any more. Mother, go
to bed and rest."

The whisper of her son reached the slumbering Jenta. She raised her
eyelids, turned her sad glance toward the tall youth whose white face
shone in the darkness like alabastar, and--what a wonder--her small,
half-closed eyes opened, and from the colourless eyeballs shone a
light of joy.

"Eliezer, come here!" she whispered. The young man approached and sat
on the edge of the bed.

"How can I sleep?" the faded woman whispered to him, "when I feel so
miserable! Hajka is sick and at any moment she may cry, and if she
would cry Jankiel would waken and be very angry!"

"Sleep mother," whispered back the young man. "I will sit here and
rock Hajka."

The yellow, wrinkled face, with the big red rose over the forehead,
bent and rested--not on the high dirty pillows--but on the lap of the
sitting youth.

Eliezer put his elbow on the edge of the cradle, leaned his forehead
on the palm of his hand and sat in thought. From time to time he
moved the cradle with his foot, and hummed.

"Oj! My head, my poor head!" whispered in her sleep the yellow-faced
woman, slumbering with her head in her son's lap.

"Oh, Israel! how poor thou art!" thoughtfully whispered the red lips
of the young man watching by the cradle.

While this was passing in Reb Jankiel's house, a small, lively human
figure rushed through the darkness, across the large school-yard
toward the small house of Rabbi Todros, where it disappeared behind a
small door.

The creaking of the door was answered from the interior of the house
by a low, but pure voice:

"Is that you, Moshe?"

"I, Nassi! your faithful servant! the miserable footstool of your
feet! May the angel of peace visit y