is covered with a snow-white cloth. The utensils are clean and
bright. The board is spread with tempting viands. An antique brass lamp,
polished like a mirror, hangs from the ceiling, and the flame from its
six arms sheds a soft light upon the table beneath. A number of silver
candlesticks among the dishes add to the illumination.

On this evening, Mordecai returned from the synagogue with his son
Mendel, a lad of thirteen, and his brother-in-law, Hirsch Bensef, a
resident of Kief. Mordecai was a thin, pale-faced, brown-bearded man of
forty or thereabouts, with shoulders stooping as though under a weight
of care; perhaps, though, it was from the sedentary life he led,
teaching unruly children the elements of Hebrew and religion. He had
resided in Togarog for fourteen years, ever since he had married Leah,
the daughter of Reb Bensef of Kief. His wife's brother was a man of
different stamp. He was a few years younger than Mordecai. His step was
firm, his head erect, his beard jet black, and his intellect, though not
above the superstitious fancies of his time and race, was, for all
ordinary transactions, especially those of trade, eminently clear and
powerful. He was, as we shall see, one of the wealthiest Jewish
merchants in Kief, and therefore quite a power in the community of that
place.

Leah met the men at the door.

"Good _Shabbes_, my dear husband; good _Shabbes_, brother," said the
woman, cheerfully, her matronly face all aglow with pride and pleasure.
"You must be famished from your long trip, brother."

"Yes, I am very hungry. I have tasted nothing since I left Kharkov, at
five o'clock this morning."

"How kind of you to come all that distance to our boy's _bar-mitzvah!_
He can never be sufficiently grateful."

"He is my god-child," said the man, affectionately stroking his nephew's
head. "I take great pride in him. It has pleased the Lord to deny me
children, and the deprivation is hard to bear. Sister, let me take
Mendel with me. I am rich and can give him all he can desire. He shall
study Talmud and become a great and famous rabbi, of whom all the world
will one day speak in praise. You have still another boy, while my home
is dreary for want of a child's presence. What say you?"

But the mother had, long before the conclusion of this appeal, clasped
the boy to her bosom, while the tears of love forced themselves through
her lashes at the bare suggestion of parting from her first-born.

"God forbid,"