d
may always be, but still it is all I have. Let me give you this. If it
turns out to be of value you can take out your loan with interest and
give me the rest; if it does not, I will pay it back as I can; it may be
ten years or it may be less, but I will pay it if I live."

Isaac raised his head. "Well, that is fair." His voice was again under
control. "Not for me--but for you. Yes, that is quite right for you to
feel that way. Next week you can bring in the papers." He picked up the
bonds. "Now put these in your inside pocket and look out for them as you
cross the ferry. Good-by."

CHAPTER XXX

Jack strode out into the night, his mind in a whirl. No sense of elation
over the money had possession of him. All his thoughts were on Isaac.
What manner of man was this Jew? he kept asking himself in a sort of
stunned surprise, who could handle his shears like a journeyman, talk
like a savant, spend money like a prince, and still keep the heart of a
child? Whoever heard of such an act of kindness; and so spontaneous and
direct; reading his heart, sympathizing with him in his troubles--as his
friend would have done--as his own father might have done.

And with the thought of Cohen's supreme instantaneous response there
followed with a rush of shame and self-humiliation that of his own
narrow-mindedness, his mean prejudices, his hatred of the race, his
questionings of Peter's intimacy, and his frequent comments on their
acquaintance--the one thing he could never understand in his beloved
mentor. Again Isaac's words rang in his ears. "Is it because I am a Jew?
Who taught you such nonsense? Not your Uncle Peter--he loves me. I love
him." And with them arose the vision of the man stretched to his full
height, the light of the lamp glinting on his moist forehead, his
bead-like eyes flashing in the rush of his anger.

As to the sacrifice both he and Ruth had just made, and it was now
final, this no longer troubled him. He had already weighed for her every
side of the question, taking especial pains to discuss each phase of the
subject, even going so far as to disagree with MacFarlane's opinion
as to the worthlessness of the ore lands. But the dear child had never
wavered.

"No!--I don't care," she had answered with a toss of her head. "Let the
land go if there is no other way. We can get on without it, my darling,
and these poor people cannot." She had not, of course, if the truth must
be told, weighed any of the cons