he clouded mien of the men and their scanty
greetings that he was not so welcome to them as he used to be. Nobody
rose when he passed, or approached him with a friendly word. Only the
child got up as he went by, pushed his hands into the sleeves of his
garment, and followed him.

Walking one behind the other, they crossed a long, narrow street, and
found themselves in the fields which divided Abel Karaim's hut from
the town.

It was now almost dark, but no flickering light was to be seen in
Abel's window. They were not asleep yet, as Meir could see the dark
outline of Golda near the window.

They greeted each other with a silent motion of the head.

"Golda," said Meir, in a low and rapid voice, "have you met with any
unpleasantness lately? Has anybody molested you?"

The girl pondered a little over his question. "Why do you ask me
that, Meir?"

"I was afraid some injury might have been done to you. People have
spread some foolish slander about us."

"I do not mind injury; I have grown up with it. Injury is my sister."

Meir still looked troubled. "Why have you no light burning?" he
asked.

"I have nothing to spin, and zeide prays in darkness."

"And why have you nothing to spin?"

"I carried the yarn to Hannah Witebska and Sarah, Ber's wife, and
they did not give me any more wool."

"They have not insulted you?" asked Meir angrily

Golda was again silent.

"People's eyes often say worse things than tongues," she replied at
last quietly.

Evidently she did not want to complain, or it may be her mind was too
full of other things to heed it much.

"Meir," she said, "you have been in great trouble yourself lately?"

Meir sat down upon the bench outside and leaned his head upon his
hand with a weary sigh.

"The greatest trouble and grief fell upon me to-day when I found that
the people had turned away from me. Their former friendship has
changed into ill feeling, and those that confided in me suspect me
now of evil."

Golda hung her head sadly, and Meir went on:

"I do not know myself what to do. If I follow the promptings of my
heart, my people will hate and persecute me. If I act against my
conscience I shall hate myself and never know peace and happiness.
Whilst I was sitting in the Bet-ha-Midrash I had almost made up my
mind to let things be, and to try and live in peace with everybody;
but when I had left the Ha-Midrash my temper again got the better of
me, and rescuing a poor child I offende