the Red Beadle demonstrated that the man could not be of
the missionary camp, else had he not been left to starve, one
converted Jew being worth a thousand pounds of fresh subscriptions.
Moreover he, the Red Beadle, had now convinced the man of his
spiritual errors, and _The Brotherhood of the Peoples_ was no longer
on sale. Also, being unable to leave his wife's bedside, Zussmann
would do the work at home below the Union rates prevalent in public.
So, trade being brisk, the _Gabbai_ relented and bargained, and the
Red Beadle sped to his friend's abode and flew up the four flights of
stairs.

"Good news!" he cried. "The _Gabbai_ wants another hand, and he is
ready to take you."

"Me?" Zussmann was paralyzed with joy and surprise.

"Now will you deny that the Idea works?" cried Hulda, her face flushed
and her eyes glittering. And she fell a-coughing.

"You are right, Hulda; you are always right," cried Zussmann, in
responsive radiance. "Thank God! Thank God!"

"God forgive me," muttered the Red Beadle.

"Go at once, Zussmann," said Hulda. "I shall do very well here--this
has given me strength. I shall be up in a day or two."

"No, no, Zussmann," said the Beadle hurriedly. "There is no need to
leave your wife. I have arranged it all. The _Gabbai_ does not want
you to come there or to speak to him, because, though the Idea works
in him, the other 'hands' are not yet so large-minded: I am to bring
you the orders, and I shall come here to fetch them."

The set of tools to which Zussmann clung in desperate hope made the
plan both feasible and pleasant.

And so the Red Beadle's visits resumed their ancient frequency even as
his Sabbath clothes resumed their ancient gloss, and every week's-end
he paid over Zussmann's wages to him--full Union rate.

But Hulda, although she now accepted illogically the Red Beadle's
honey in various shapes, did not appear to progress as much as the
Idea, or as the new book which she stimulated Zussmann to start for
its further propagation.

VI

One Friday evening of December, when miry snow underfoot and grayish
fog all around combined to make Spitalfields a malarious marsh, the
Red Beadle, coming in with the week's wages, found to his horror a
doctor hovering over Hulda's bed like the shadow of death.

From the look that Zussmann gave him he saw a sudden change for the
worse had set in. The cold of the weather seemed to strike right to
his heart. He took the sufferer's limp ch