studied so hard to fit himself for his future calling that he not only injured his health, but soon got beyond his teacher. The delicate boy was consumed by an unquenchable thirst for knowledge. And this thirst became the cause of his destruction, the curse of his life. By means of money and passionate entreaties combined, he induced the Christian schoolmaster of the place to teach him at night and in secret. Thus he learned High German, the forbidden and much-hated language of the Gentiles around him, and also "Christian theology." Of the latter branch of learning the schoolmaster himself knew very little; so he helped out his ignorance by lending his unwearied pupil many books belonging to the Dominican library, and this he did before Schlome had got over all the difficulties of learning to read. In this way the boy read all manner of strange books, one on the top of the other, and often enough, no doubt, put sufficiently curious interpretations upon them. At last one day a book fell into his hands, which nearly drove him mad. The form and tone were well known to him, for did they not enforce obedience to the holy Thora (Law)? But the spirit that breathed in its pages was another and—the youth's very blood seemed to freeze in his veins—a milder and better than what he had known. For this book was the New Testament. Its teaching seemed to him like the mild beauty of a spring day, and yet his hair stood on end with horror. This, then, was the idol-worship of the Christians,—this was the history of the life and labors of that Man whom his father crucified, and from whose likeness he had been taught to turn away his head in hatred and contempt! The blow was too severe. Schlome became very ill, and lay for many weeks dangerously sick of a fever. Often and often in his delirium the unconscious youth wept and talked of the pale Nazarene, of the cross, and of that ill-starred book. His parents and neighbors listened to his ravings in horror; they searched into their cause, and at length discovered Schlome's secret studies. Soon afterward a strange rumor was circulated in the Ghetto, to the effect that Schlome Grünstein had wished to become a Christian, and that as a punishment for this sin God had visited him with madness. In course of time the youth recovered, and went about among his brethren in the faith as usual; but henceforth he seemed paler, shyer, and more depressed than before. No one knew what inward conflicts he had to wage; but every child in the Jewish quarter called him a Meschumed, and told how he had sworn a holy oath to his father that he would only remain a Jew on two conditions—first, that he might buy and read whatever books he chose; and second, that he might remain unmarried. He kept his oath, even when the death of his parents made him rich and independent. Thus he passed his life in the narrow, gloomy Ghetto. He had only one friend, David Blum, a man who devoted his life to tending the sick, and whose own story was both strange and sad. But then he did not make him his friend till late in life, and lost him soon afterward; for David Blum died, whether of low fever or of a broken heart it were difficult to say. The Meschumed mourned his loss deeply. It seemed to him as though a bit of his own heart had been buried with his friend. And yet these men differed from each other as much in character as in the circumstances that had moulded their lives. David was strong and high-hearted, but quick-tempered and fantastic, so that he broke down once for all when fate aimed a heavy blow at him; Schlome, on the contrary, was weak and gentle, and endowed with a great power of endurance which enabled him to bend under the blows of fate instead of being broken by them. Thus he lived on in the midst of men and yet terribly alone—the poor even hesitated to accept charity at his hands. Still he loved all men, but especially children; and these alone returned his affection, although they could seldom show it from fear of their parents. He almost idolized little Esther, the only child of his dead sister; and she loved him better than her grave, reserved father.

Such was the man who came up to the bench on which Moses Freudenthal and his daughter were seated on that lovely summer evening.

"I want to speak to you, brother," he said, as Moses rose and looked at him with a coldly questioning gaze. He then requested the child to go to bed, and after she had left them, continued: "I want to speak to you about many important things. Sit down beside me.... You needn't be afraid! There isn't a creature to be seen in the street...."

Moses sat down hesitatingly.

"It is about the child," resumed the Meschumed. "I have been thinking long and earnestly about her, and when I chanced to see you this evening as I was passing, I determined to say what I had to say at once. You see, brother, the child is growing a big girl. She will be beautiful one day; but what is more to the purpose at present, is, that her goodness and intelligence are surprising in one so young. You have scarcely any idea of the sort of questions she asks, and of the kind of thoughts that little head contains—you'd hardly believe it, brother."

"And how do you know?" interrupted Moses, in a harsh stern voice. "Did I ever give you leave?..."

"Don't let us discuss that point, if you please," replied Schlome, raising his hand in deprecation, "don't let us discuss that point. I could answer you boldly that Esther is my sister's child, and that I have a right to love and care for her. But I will not answer you thus; we have been kept apart long enough by angry words. And even if you tell me that I am a stranger in your house, and by my own fault, too, I will answer you nothing. Love is not alone induced by ties of blood, and the world is not so rich in love that one can afford to cast any aside. But—it isn't that you mean. You fear danger for your child; you fear that I should try to undermine her faith. You feel less confidence in me than in the lowest servant in your house."

He ceased, but Moses made no reply. And yet the hard man's heart was really touched when he once more heard the voice that had been so dear to him in his boyhood. But he shook off his emotion, and when Schlome repeated his question, answered with cold severity, "My servants are all pious, and are stanch believers in the faith of their fathers." This he said with his eyes fixed on the ground. Had he looked up he would have seen his brother-in-law's lips tremble with bitter grief and disappointment. And yet his answer was gentle.

"Listen, Moses," he said; "it is written, and it is a true saying, 'By their fruits ye shall know them.' Every incident of my life is known to you, and to all our neighbors. I have always been terribly alone in the world, forsaken of all men, but still I have striven with all my heart and soul to unite my life to that of others. I have striven to make it as useful as it was possible for it to be after the blight that had fallen upon it. You are the first person to whom I have ever said this, and you will be the last who will ever hear from me that I know I have acted toward my fellow-men with as much beneficence—as it is called—as I could; and yet, what is such beneficence in reality but the duty every man owes to his kind? I have not, therefore, lived either a happy or a good life; but judge, Moses, I entreat of you, whether it shows either folly or sin?"

Moses passed his hand slowly across his forehead and eyes, as though to give himself time for thought.

Then he answered more mildly:

"No man can judge a whole life with a righteous judgement; God, who knows all, can alone do so. I am willing to believe it is as you say, and it is well for you that you can thus justify your life. For you can thus wait quietly for the hour when God Himself will judge you. But"—he interrupted himself, and then continued, almost shyly—"do you believe in God?"

"Yes," replied Schlome, raising his head; "yes, I believe in Him. I sought Him in my boyhood, when I imagined that he was a God of wrath and