d Manasseh to me, as we walked away from the garden,
"I had some cuttings of rose-trees at home, in a basket out on the
fire-escape, and they had begun to bud."

There was a pause.

"Well," I inquired, "and what happened?"

"My wife laid out the mattress to air on the top of the basket, and they
were all crushed."

Manasseh made an outward gesture with his hand, and I asked no more
questions.

The poky, stuffy shop in which he worked came into my mind, and my heart
was sore for him.

YOHRZEIT FOR MOTHER

The Ginzburgs' first child died of inflammation of the lungs when it was
two years and three months old.

The young couple were in the depths of grief and despair--they even
thought seriously of committing suicide.

But people do not do everything they think of doing. Neither Ginzburg
nor his wife had the courage to throw themselves into the cold and
grizzly arms of death. They only despaired, until, some time after, a
newborn child bound them once more to life.

It was a little girl, and they named her Dvoreh, after Ginzburg's dead
mother.

The Ginzburgs were both free-thinkers in the full sense of the word, and
their naming the child after the dead had no superstitious significance
whatever.

It came about quite simply.

"Dobinyu," Ginzburg had asked his wife, "how shall we call our
daughter?"

"I don't know," replied the young mother.

"No more do I," said Ginzburg.

"Let us call her Dvorehle," suggested Dobe, automatically, gazing at her
pretty baby, and very little concerned about its name.

Had Ginzburg any objection to make? None at all, and the child's name
was Dvorehle henceforward. When the first child had lived to be a year
old, the parents had made a feast-day, and invited guests to celebrate
their first-born's first birthday with them.

With the second child it was not so.

The Ginzburgs loved their Dvorehle, loved her painfully, infinitely, but
when it came to the anniversary of her birth they made no rejoicings.

I do not think I shall be going too far if I say they did not dare to do
so.

Dvorehle was an uncommon child: a bright girlie, sweet-tempered, pretty,
and clever, the light of the house, shining into its every corner. She
could be a whole world of delight to her parents, this wee Dvorehle. But
it was not the delight, not the happiness they had known with the first
child, not the same. _That_ had been so free, so careless. Now it was
different: terrible pictur