one of her
companions in the tag game.

She was a strange mixture of tomboy and bookworm, which was a mercifully
kind arrangement for both body and mind. The spiritual side of her was
groping and staggering and feeling its way about as does that of any
little girl whose mind is exceptionally active, and whose mother is
unusually busy. It was on the Day of Atonement, known in the Hebrew as
Yom Kippur, in the year following her father's death that that side of
her performed a rather interesting handspring.

Fanny Brandeis had never been allowed to fast on this, the greatest and
most solemn of Jewish holy days Molly Brandeis' modern side refused
to countenance the practice of withholding food from any child for
twenty-four hours. So it was in the face of disapproval that Fanny,
making deep inroads into the steak and fried sweet potatoes at supper on
the eve of the Day of Atonement, announced her intention of fasting from
that meal to supper on the following evening. She had just passed her
plate for a third helping of potatoes. Theodore, one lap behind her in
the race, had entered his objection.

"Well, for the land's sakes!" he protested. "I guess you're not the only
one who likes sweet potatoes."

Fanny applied a generous dab of butter to an already buttery morsel, and
chewed it with an air of conscious virtue.

"I've got to eat a lot. This is the last bite I'll have until to-morrow
night."

"What's that?" exclaimed Mrs. Brandeis, sharply.

"Yes, it is!" hooted Theodore.

Fanny went on conscientiously eating as she explained.

"Bella Weinberg and I are going to fast all day. We just want to see if
we can."

"Betcha can't," Theodore said.

Mrs. Brandeis regarded her small daughter with a thoughtful gaze. "But
that isn't the object in fasting, Fanny--just to see if you can. If
you're going to think of food all through the Yom Kippur services----"

"I sha'n't?" protested Fanny passionately. "Theodore would, but I
won't."

"Wouldn't any such thing," denied Theodore. "But if I'm going to play
a violin solo during the memorial service I guess I've got to eat my
regular meals."

Theodore sometimes played at temple, on special occasions. The
little congregation, listening to the throbbing rise and fall of this
fifteen-year-old boy's violin playing, realized, vaguely, that here was
something disturbingly, harrowingly beautiful. They did not know that
they were listening to genius.

Molly Brandeis, in her sec