ll be our guide until death." In the last word "death" he
tried, as usual, to rise artistically to the higher octave, then to fall
very low, and to rise again almost at once into the height; but this
time he failed, the note stuck in his throat and came out false.

He got a fright, and in his fright he looked round to make sure no one
was standing beside him. Seeing only old Henoch, his alarm grew less, he
knew that old Henoch was deaf.

As he went out with his prayer-scarf and phylacteries under his arm, the
unsuccessful "death" rang in his ears and troubled him.

"Plague take it," he muttered, "it never once happened to me before."

Soon, however, he remembered that two weeks ago, on the Sabbath before
the New Moon, as he stood praying with the choristers before the altar,
nearly the same thing had happened to him when he sang "He is our God"
as a solo in the Kedushah.

Happily no one remarked it--anyway the "bass" had said nothing to him.
And the memory of the unsuccessful "Hear, O Israel" of two weeks ago and
of to-day's "unto death" were mingled together, and lay heavily on his
heart.

He would have liked to try the note once more as he walked, but the
street was just then full of people, and he tried to refrain till he
should reach home. Contrary to his usual custom, he began taking rapid
steps, and it looked as if he were running away from someone. On
reaching home, he put away his prayer-scarf without saying so much as
good morning, recovered his breath after the quick walk, and began to
sing, "He shall be our guide until death."

"That's right, you have so little time to sing in! The day is too short
for you!" exclaimed the cantoress, angrily. "It grates on the ears
enough already!"

"How, it grates?" and the cantor's eyes opened wide with fright, "I sing
a note, and you say 'it grates'? How can it grate?"

He looked at her imploringly, his eyes said: "Have pity on me! Don't
say, 'it grates'! because if it _does_ grate, I am miserable, I am done
for!"

But the cantoress was much too busy and preoccupied with the dinner to
sympathize and to understand how things stood with her husband, and went
on:

"Of course it grates! Why shouldn't it? It deafens me. When you sing in
the choir, I have to bear it, but when you begin by yourself--what?"

The cantor had grown as white as chalk, and only just managed to say:

"Grune, are you mad? What are you talking about?"

"What ails the man to-day!" exclaimed