band, and when she had gone to the room from
which came the sounds of children's voices, he said to himself:

"A wise woman is more precious than gold and pearls. Besides, her
husband's heart is quiet."

After a while she returned, locked the door, and asked softly:

"Where is the key?"

Hersh found the key of his great-grandfather's library, and they
began to take down the large books. They placed them on the floor,
and having seated themselves, they began to turn slowly one leaf
after the other. Clouds of dust rose from the piles of paper, which
had remained untouched for centuries. The dust settled on Freida's
snow-white turban in a gray layer, and covered also Hersh's golden
hair. But they worked on indefatigably and with such a solemn
expression on their faces that one would think that they were
uncovering the grave of their great-grandfather in order to take
therefrom his grand thoughts.

Evening was already approaching when Hersh exclaimed as people
exclaim when they meet with victory and bliss. Freida said nothing,
but she rose slowly and extended her hands above her head in a
movement of gratitude.

Then Hersh prayed fervently near the window, through which could be
seen the first stars appearing in the sky. During the whole night
there was a light in that window, and seated at the table, his head
resting on both hands, was Hersh, reading from large yellowish sheets
of paper. At the break of day, when the eastern part of the sky had hardly
begun to burn with pinkish light, he went out, dressed himself in a
travelling mantle and large beaver cap, got into a carriage, and drove
away. He was so deeply plunged in thought that he did not even bid
good-bye to his children and servants, who crowded the hall of the house.
He only nodded to Freida, who stood on the piazza, with the white turban
on her head turning pink in the light of the dawn. Her eyes, which
followed her husband, were filled with sadness and pride.

Where had Hersh gone? Beyond mountains, forests, and rivers, to a
remote part of the country where, amidst swampy plains and black
forests of Pinseyzna lived an eloquent partisan of the rights to
civilisation of the Polish Jews, Butrymowicz. He was a karmaszym--(the
higher, or rather richer, class of nobility in Poland were called by that
name, which means a certain shade of red, because their national
costumes were of that colour)--and a thinker. He saw clearly and far.
He was familiar with the n