ed half the tiny shop, and became almost
eloquent upon the great colonization movement and the "Society of
Lovers of Zion," which had begun to ramify throughout the world.

"Yes; but if all Israel has farms, who will buy my fowls?" said the
poulterer's wife.

"You will not need to sell fowls," Aaron tried to explain.

The poulterer shook his head. "The whole congregation is gone mad," he
said. "For my part I believe that when the Holy One, blessed be He,
brings us back to Palestine, it will be without any trouble of our
own. As it is written, I will bear thee upon eagles' wings."

Aaron disputed this notion--which he had hitherto accepted as
axiomatic--with all the ardor of the convert. It was galling to find,
as he discussed the thing during the next few weeks, that many even of
those present at the speech read miracle into the designs of
Providence and the millionaire. But Aaron was able to get together a
little band of brother souls bent on emigrating together to
Palestine, there to sow the seeds of the Kingdom, literally as well as
metaphorically. This enthusiasm, however, did not wear well.
Gradually, as the memory of the magnetic meeting faded, the pilgrim
brotherhood disintegrated, till at last only its nucleus--Aaron--was
left in solitary determination.

"You have only yourself," pleaded the backsliders. "We have wife and
children."

"I have more than myself," retorted Aaron bitterly. "I have faith."

And, indeed, his faith in the vision was unshakable. Every man being
his own Messiah, he, at least, would not draw back from the
prospective plough to which he had put his hand. He had been saving up
for the great voyage and a little surplus wherewith to support him in
Palestine while looking about him. Once established in the Holy Land,
how forcibly he would preach by epistle to the men of little faith!
They would come out and join him. He--the despised Aaron--the least of
the House of Israel--would have played a part in the restoration of
his people.

"You will come back," said the poulterer sceptically, when his
fellow-tenant bade him good-bye; and parodying the sacred
aspiration--"Next year in Manchester," he cried, in genial mockery.
The fowl-plucking females laughed heartily, agitating the feathery
fluff in the air.

"Not so," said Aaron. "I cannot come back. I have sold the goodwill of
my round to Joseph Petowski, and have transferred to him all my
customers."

Some of the recreant brotherhood,