anxious to settle the mischief of the little Mendel quickly.

"Reb Jankiel," he said aloud, after quite a long time, "your son
wanders about during the night and assaults innocent people!"

There was no answer.

"Reb Jankiel, your son insults people with bad words!"

Reb Jankiel continued to pray with the same fervour.

"Reb Jankiel, your son breaks the windows of poor people!"

Reb Jankiel turned a few leaves of a large book which he held in both
hands, and sang triumphantly:

"Sing to the Lord a new song, because he has created all marvels!
Sing! Play, play with a loud singing! Sound the trumpets and horns
before the King, Lord!"

The last words were accompanied by the closing of the door. The young
man left the long dark corridor, wading once more through the
rubbish. When he passed the last lighted window he heard the sound of
soft singing. He stopped, and anyone would have done the same, for
the voice was pure, young and soft as a murmuring of a complaint,
full of prayer, sadness and longing. It was a man's voice.

"Eliezer!" whispered the passer-by, and stopped at the low window.

These windows had far cleaner panes than the others. Through them
could be seen a small room, in which was only a bed, a table, a few
chairs, and a library full of books. On the table burned a tallow
candle, and at the table sat a young man holding his head between the
palms of his hands. He was about twenty years old, and his face was
white, and of a delicate oval shape. From his fresh lips came the
beautiful singing which would have attracted the attention of a great
master of music.

And no wonder. Eliezer, Jankiel's son, was the cantor of the
community of Szybow--the singer of people and Jehovah.

"Eliezer!" was repeated from behind the window in a soft, friendly
whisper.

The singer must have heard the whisper, for he sat near the window.
He raised his eyes, and turned them toward the pane. They were blue,
meek, and sad. But he did not interrupt his singing. On the contrary,
he lifted his hands, white as alabastar, and in that ecstatic
position, with an enthusiastic expression on his face, he sang still
louder:

"My people, cast from thee the dust of heavy roads. Rise, and
take the robe of thy beauty. Hasten, ah hasten, with help to your
people, the Only, Incomprehensible! God of our fathers."

The young man at the window did not call any more to the singer
praying for his people. He went off, stepping softly in c