her grandfather. She walked into the room quietly and lightly,
with a smile on her lips. Then she sat down and began to spin. The
room was in complete silence, and old Abel began to whisper some old
story. But soon his mouth closed, his hands dropped on the sheaf of
willow branches and his head rested motionlessly against the wall.
The goat disappeared from the threshold and for a while could be
heard her tramping in the little hall. Then everything became quiet.
The young people remained alone in the presence of the slumbering old
man and the stars which looked in through the low window, The girl
was spinning, gazing into the face of the young man who sat opposite
to her. He, with dropped, eyelids was thinking.

"Golda," said he, after a long while, "the prophets of Israel, who
cut their hands in two rather than be forced to play and be the
slaves of their masters, were great men."

"They did not wish to act against their hearts," answered the girl
gravely.

They were silent again. The spindle still turned in Golda's hand, but
less and less swiftly and more quietly. Gusts of wind blew through
the chinks in the wall and caused the yellow flame of the candle to
flicker.

"Golda," said Meir, "is it not frightful for you in this solitary
cabin, when the long fall and winter drop black darkness over the
earth, and great winds enter through the walls and moan about the
house?"

"No," answered the girl, "it is not frightful for me, because the
Eternal watches the poor huts standing in the darkness, and when the
winds enter here and moan, I listen to the stories zeide tells me,
and I do not hear their moaning."

Meir gazed pityingly into the face of the grave child. Golda looked
at him with motionless eyes, which shone like black, fiery stars.

"Golda," said Meir again, "do you remember the story of Rabbi Akiba?"

"I shall never forget it to the end of my life," she answered.

"Golda, could you wait fourteen years, like the beautiful Rachel?"

"I could wait until the end of my life."

She said this quietly and gravely, but the spindle slipped from her
hand and dropped.

"Meir," said she, so softly that the whispering of the wind almost
deafened her words, "you must promise me one thing. When you have a
sorrow in your heart, then come to our house. Let me know your every
grief, let zeide console you with his beautiful stories."

"Golda," said Meir, in a strong voice, "I would rather cut my hand in
two, as did t