he author's treachery to his race and faith. Zussmann was
given violently to understand that his presence in the little
synagogue would lead to disturbances in the service. "The Jew needs no
house of prayer," he said; "his life is a prayer, his workshop a
temple."

His workmen deserted him one by one as vacancies occurred elsewhere.

"We will get Christians," he said.

But the work itself began to fail. He was dependent upon a large firm
whose head was Parnass of a North London congregation, and when one of
Zussmann's workers, anxious to set up for himself, went to him with
the tale, the contract was transferred to him, and Zussmann's
security-deposit returned. But far heavier than all these blows was
Hulda's sudden illness, and though the returned trust-money came in
handy to defray the expense of doctors, the outlook was not cheerful.
But "I will become a hand myself," said Zussmann cheerfully. "The
annoyance of my brethren will pass away when they really understand my
Idea; meantime it is working in them, for even to hate an Idea is to
meditate upon it."

The Red Beadle grunted angrily. He could hear Hulda coughing in the
next room, and that hurt his chest.

But it was summer now, and quite a considerable strip of blue sky
could be seen from the window, and the mote-laden sun-rays that
streamed in encouraged Hulda to grow better. She was soon up and about
again, but the doctor said her system was thoroughly upset and she
aught to have sea air. But that, of course, was impossible now. Hulda
herself declared there was much better air to be got higher up, in
the garret, which was fortunately "to let." It is true there was only
one room there. Still, it was much cheaper. The Red Beadle's heart was
heavier than the furniture he helped to carry upstairs. But the
unsympathetic couple did not share his gloom. They jested and laughed,
as light of heart as the excited children on the staircases who
assisted at the function. "My Idea has raised me nearer heaven," said
Zussmann. That night, after the Red Beadle had screwed up the
four-poster, he allowed himself to be persuaded to stay to supper. He
had given up the habit as soon as Zussmann's finances began to fail.

By way of house-warming, Hulda had ordered in baked potatoes and liver
from the cook-shop, and there were also three tepid slices of
plum-pudding.

"Plum-pudding!" cried Zussmann in delight, as his nostrils scented the
dainty. "What a good omen for the Idea