Friday evening--by reading the Sabbath
prayers; winding up, "A virtuous woman who can find? For her price is
far above rubies."

On the forenoon of the next day arrived a basket, scenting the air
with delicious odors of exquisite edibles.

Zussmann received it with delight from the boy who bore it. "God bless
them!" he said. "A chicken--grapes--wine. Look, Hulda!"

Hulda raised herself in bed; her eyes sparkled, a flush of color
returned to the wan cheeks.

"Where do these come from?" she asked.

Zussmann hesitated. Then he told her they were the harbingers of a
visit from the good sisters.

The flush in her cheek deepened to scarlet.

"My poor Zussmann!" she cried reproachfully. "Give them back--give
them back at once! Call after the boy."

"Why?" stammered Zussmann.

"Call after the boy!" she repeated imperatively. "Good God! If the
ladies were to be seen coming up here, it would be all over with your
Idea. And on the Sabbath, too! People already look upon you as a tool
of the missionaries. Quick! quick!"

His heart aching with mingled love and pain, he took up the basket and
hurried after the boy. Hulda sank back on her pillow with a sigh of
relief.

"Dear heart!" she thought, as she took advantage of his absence to
cough freely. "For me he does what he would starve rather than do for
himself. A nice thing to imperil his Idea--the dream of his life! When
the Jews see he makes no profit by it, they will begin to consider it.
If he did not have the burden of me he would not be tempted. He could
go out more and find work farther afield. This must end--I must die or
be on my feet again soon."

Zussmann came back, empty-handed and heavy-hearted.

"Kiss me, my own life!" she cried. "I shall be better soon."

He bent down and touched her hot, dry lips. "Now I see," she
whispered, "why God did not send us children. We thought it was an
affliction, but lo! it is that your Idea shall not be hindered."

"The English Rabbis have not yet drawn attention to it," said Zussmann
huskily.

"All the better," replied Hulda. "One day it will be translated into
English--I know it, I feel it here." She touched her chest, and the
action made her cough.

Going out later for a little fresh air, at Hulda's insistence, he was
stopped in the broad hall on which the stairs debouched by Cohen, the
ground-floor tenant, a black-bearded Russian Jew, pompous in Sabbath
broadcloth.

"What's the matter with my milk?" abruptly as