Many years have passed since poor Esther Freudenthal died at her father's feet. Moses has also been dead for a long time. The large white house opposite the Dominican monastery, which now belongs to the Rabbi of SadagÓra, looks quite as grand and well cared for as when it was owned by the stern, unhappy old man. An oval plate now hangs above the door, on which a black eagle is painted on a yellow shield, and round the edge are the words, "Royal and Imperial District Court." Petty thieves, Polish rebels, and Jewish usurers are brought to trial where Moses and his daughter had lived and suffered. These public offices occupy the ground-floor on the right of the entrance-door. The shop formerly kept by old Moses still remains on the left hand, but another name is now painted above the door—"Nathan Silberstein, Grocer and Wine-Merchant." Two words of the inscription were wrongly spelt; but that was the fault of humpbacked little Janko, who painted the sign.

The new owner has made no changes on the first floor, which is still let to the doctor and district judge. The district judge is, however, different from the one Moses Freudenthal knew. Herr Julko von Negrusz has succeeded Herr Hippolyt Lozinski, with the yellow face and attenuated figure. He differs from his predecessor in every respect. Herr Lozinski considered the Jews his prey, rich and poor alike; and what he extorted from them he gave to poor Christians—such as the nobles, officials, and officers. His wife, Kasimira, who came of the noble family of Cybulski—which name in English means Onion—was celebrated for five German miles around Barnow for three peculiarities—her debts, her brilliant toilets, and her love of dancing. She deceived her husband so openly, that people wondered how he could continue to cock his hat so jauntily on his long yellow head.

But all this is changed.

Herr von Negrusz extorts nothing from the Jews, nor does he give great feasts to the Christians. He lives entirely in his office, and for his lovely young wife and two pretty boys. His wife is very beautiful. Her figure is straight and slender, and though her carriage is proud, she is extremely graceful. Her features are finely cut, and her dreamy dark eyes are unfathomably deep. But her most striking beauty is her rich olive complexion. Her appearance conjures up Zuleima and Zuleika, and the enchanted beauties of the East; but it must be observed that the district judge's wife wears a cross upon a chain round her throat, and that she has printed upon her calling-cards, "Christine von Negrusz."

Strange to say, these cards form her sole connection with other people. She has no visitors, and she visits no one. Between her and the world of Barnow there is a limit of acquaintance, past which neither she nor they try to step.

If some public functionary sent to Barnow happens to be a married man, he is carefully instructed by his colleagues to borrow the old carriage and horses of old Herr von Wolanski, and drive with his wife to the large white house. Arrived there, he is to send in cards, and is warned that the customary answer received on such occasions is, that the district judge is not at home, and that gnÄdige Frau is not well. In the course of a week Herr von Negrusz and his wife drive in the same carriage to return the visit, and the ceremony is acted over again with the parts reversed. All intercourse then ceases between the two families. This custom is invariable.

Another curious circumstance is, that Frau von Negrusz never goes out of the house alone. Once or twice a week she takes a walk with her husband. The inhabitants of Barnow are accustomed to walk in the new park surrounding the castle of GrÄfin Jadwiga Bortynska, nÉe Polanska. Unlike other people, the district judge and his wife always take their constitutional in the deserted garden by the river-side, and close to the old castle. The direct road to these pleasure-grounds is through the Jews' quarter; but this unsociable pair avoid the nearest way, and choose rather to go all round the outskirts of the town. One might have supposed their reason to have been that they wished to escape the dust and bad odors of the Ghetto; but this hardly accounts for it, as when once caught in a storm, they made the same long round in the pouring rain.

Herr von Negrusz looks everybody pluckily in the face, and never avoids meeting his friends; why should his wife be so unsociable, and what proscription separates her from the rest of the world?

You have only to ask the gossip and newsmonger of Barnow—the magnificent Frau Emilie, wife of the new registrar. Her husband has lived ten years in Barnow, but he is still called the "new registrar," to distinguish him from his colleague, who has been there twice as long. Frau Emilie will show you a calling-card, and answer as follows: "How can one associate with such a person? Look at her card—why has she not had it printed in the proper way, with her maiden name in the usual place? Because it would not look well to put 'Christine von Negrusz, nÉe Bilkes, divorcÉe Silberstein.' Her real name is Chane, her father is Nathan Bilkes, and another Nathan—Nathan Silberstein—is her first husband. Negrusz is eccentric. First he wanted to marry the daughter of a millionaire, an Armenian baron, and when this was forbidden, he suddenly comforted himself by falling in love with the rather good-looking Jewess, and he bought her from her husband...."

"Bought?" you will ask with surprise—"for money—for hard cash?"

"Of course—why not?" your informant will reply. "Are you really surprised? To a Jew everything is salable—even a wife. It is said that Negrusz had to pay down a thousand gulden. If you do not believe me, ask every one in Barnow, or, better still, ask Nathan Silberstein how much he got. He is a wine-merchant, and though he is continually traveling about, he is sure to be at home for the great feasts. He will tell you that he gave her up to the district judge willingly. Now, I ask you, can we associate with such a woman?"

Emilie, the magnificent, is right for the most part. Frau Christine was really Chane, and she had been Chane Bilkes, and afterward Chane Silberstein. The wine-merchant had given her up voluntarily to the district judge. She was right also when she said that it was impossible for her—Emilie—to know such a person. She was quite wrong about the money transaction.

The price paid was not a bank-note, but a human heart.

The synagogue is a gray weather-beaten building, erected long ago, almost in the middle ages. The country people call it the Judenburg (Jews' strong-hold), because the Jews once took refuge in it, and intrenched themselves there, when Prince Czartoryski came to murder and rob them. One of his reasons for doing so was that he wanted sport, and there were no foxes or wild boars to be found in the neighborhood in the hunting season; and another was, that he wanted money. The Jews hid themselves and their property behind the walls and iron bars of the synagogue, and held out until the men of Jagiellnica arrived from their neighboring fortress, and relieved them. At that time the walls of the Judenburg were strong, and the iron-work firm; but the bars are all broken now, or they are lost, and the walls are half in ruins. As if to testify to the importance of the building as a holy refuge, the poorest of the Jews' houses are built round it on three sides. On the fourth side, the sluggish river Lered flows so close to the synagogue that there is only space for two dwellings. One of these is a large new house, painted yellow—an unusual decoration in this vicinity—and the other is a dirty, ruinous cottage clinging forlornly to the bank of the river. The yellow house seems to be shoving its poorer neighbor over the brink, the moldering walls of the hovel hang so directly above the slow sad water. The rich wine-merchant, Manasse Silberstein, used to live with his son in the large house, and a very poor man, Nathan Bilkes, had lived for many years in the hovel.

Nathan had been a dorfgeher (peddler) as long as his strength had lasted, and then he spent a weak lonely old age upon his hardly earned savings, eked out by the charity of the community. He had become prematurely old and weak, like most people of his hard-working, poverty-stricken class.

A dorfgeher means, in the language of his co-religionists, a traveler who gains his livelihood by supplying the surrounding villages with the necessaries of life. On Sundays he tramps out of the town with an enormous pack upon his back, in which is stored all that the heart of a Ruthenian peasant could wish for, except the one thing most desired—for the dorfgeher does not sell schnapps.

Everything else he sells: straw hats, leather belts, boots, clasp-knives, flowers, ribbons, corals, love-philters, stuffs for gowns, spindles, linen, tallow, hardware, images of the saints, charms, wax-candles, needles, linen thread, and newspapers of the last week. He sells everything, and all are his customers—from the cavalry officers, who buy his smuggled cigars, and the pastors and gentry, who buy his fine stuffs, to the poorest peasant. Throughout the whole week he goes from village to village, from house to house—in the height of summer and the depth of winter. He knows everybody, and all know him. If they require his wares they invite him to cross their thresholds; if they want to buy nothing they drive him away, and if he does not go immediately they hound their dogs at him. The peasant and the noble, the chaplain and the young lieutenants, sharpen their wits at his expense; and if their jokes are not always ready, they try their switches and spurs. But he never wearies, and from early morning until late evening he raises his hoarse cry, and haggles and cheats wherever he can. If he can not get money in exchange for his wares, he will take what he can get—skins, grain, chickens, ducks, or eggs. On Friday afternoons he returns to town, and for one whole day he feels himself a man; but on Sunday he becomes nothing but a dorfgeher again....

Nathan Bilkes was a dorfgeher, and the above is a description of his life, which differed in no way from that of others of his trade. His father had found him a wife in due time. She had proved most excellent, but had died soon after her marriage, leaving two children.

The children grew up, strong and beautiful, in the dark cheerless cottage, as one sometimes sees sweet flowers blooming in the midst of rubbish and decay. But their father bewailed their strength and beauty, for these qualities lost them to him. His children so passed out of his life that he grew to look upon them as dead. The son was obliged to become a soldier, because Nathan could not pay the fifty gulden that were required to obtain his release. BÄr Blitzer, the broker, had said that it could be done for fifty gulden, but the money was not there. The lad went to Italy with his regiment, and after the battle of Magenta his name was in the official list as "missing." His old father waited long for his return, but he never came back. His daughter, too, died to him. "My Chane," the old man took care to say, "was a beautiful Jewess; but I do not know the heathen (goje) Frau Christine."

The dorfgeher had not foreseen that his daughter would be a source of trouble to him. His Chane had been as obedient as she was lovely, modest, and industrious. She was not alone beloved by her father—she was a universal favorite.

No one grudged her good luck when old Manasse Silberstein sought her hand in marriage for his only son Nathan. It was a great and unexpected good fortune; for these people are strictly divided into classes, and the rich and poor seldom intermarry. This custom is natural; for the only occupation they were permitted to follow was money-making, thus the possession of wealth has been their sole happiness for many generations.

The poor peddler was at first incredulous. Old Manasse was very rich, and had a large grocery business, and a prosperous trade in Hungarian and Moldavian wines. It was a great distinction for the poor girl that his choice fell upon her.

Nathan Silberstein was a man of irreproachable character. He was a fine-looking young fellow, honest, straightforward, and intelligent, and knew the Talmud as well as he knew his trade. As he was to be a merchant, his father had had him taught High German. With the help of his teacher he learned reading and writing, and waded through a "complete letter-writer," and a "complete index of German municipal law." These two books were supposed to represent his German library; but hidden in his bookcase, under great Hebrew folios, was one other little German book. On Saturday afternoons, when he went to spend his holiday in the park, he took this little volume in his pocket. He read it in a solitary corner where the green leaves rustled around him, and at these times he felt something within him moving in sympathy with the poetry, of which he was unconscious during the rest of the week. Perhaps it was his heart beating. On the back of the book the title was written in gilt letters, "Schiller's Poems."

When his father told him he had chosen him a wife, and who she was to be, his heart was untouched. He answered dutifully, "As you will, father;" but the color left his face as he spoke. The girl was as obedient to her father as he was to his, only she blushed instead of turning pale when she heard the name of her future husband.

The betrothal took place, and three months later they were married.

In the interval, Nathan gave his fiancÉe presents of costly pearls and precious stones; and she embroidered a robe in gold and silver for him to wear in the synagogue. Their conversations were always on indifferent subjects. They did not talk of themselves or their future life, and they did not talk of the past; for though they had been neighbors all their lives, they had no mutual recollections.

The marriage was solemnized with great pomp and ceremony: wine flowed liberally, mountains of meat and confectionery were consumed, and the best musicians and merry-andrews enlivened the guests. The young people then took up their abode in the large roomy house opposite the Dominican monastery, which Manasse had prepared for his son. They led a busy life; their days were spent in labor, and they lived on pleasant friendly terms with one another. They were both good and well-disposed, and as they had never expected their married life to be spent in an earthly paradise, they were not disappointed. Custom, a common occupation, and mutual respect bound them to each other. Time passed uneventfully until the end of the first year, when a child was born, and the young father again felt his heart beat as it had not done for a long time. The infant only survived its birth a few weeks, and grief brought the young couple into closer sympathy than before. Old Manasse died about the same time, and the whole responsibility of the business fell upon their shoulders. Nathan had to go away on long journeys, and Chane became a trustworthy stewardess of the great house. She learned to read and write German, so as to be able to help her husband in the business, while his personal comforts were her ceaseless care. He had the greatest esteem for her, and brought her many presents from Lemberg and Czernowitz. They were contented with their lot, and were happy enough.

Happy enough—why were they not quite happy?

Because they did not love one another. They knew nothing of love except that Christians, previous to marriage, fell in love; and what concern had a Jew in Christian usages?

They were happy enough, and their married life seemed firmly founded on esteem for each other, and on their common interests and work; but the storms of passion were to shake the structure to its base, and after throwing it down, were to carry them onward to grief and pain.

Barnow is a very small town, a squalid nook in a God-forgotten corner of the earth, where the great current of life hardly seems to cause the faintest ripple—but it has its casino. This is only a modest little room in the court behind Nathan's shop, containing two tables and a few chairs. Nathan had opened it for the use of his principal customers. Here the officials and magnates of Barnow are accustomed to drink their morning glasses and discuss politics; and if their wives allow them, they do the same again in the evening. The high-born Florian von Bolwinski, a squire without land, and a bachelor, drinks not only his morning and evening glasses in this room, but sundry others also, filling up the intervals with expeditions to make love to a cook, or squeeze a Jew, or execute some important business. The former district judge, Herr Hippolyt Lozinski, had been a constant customer; and the little room did him one good service in giving him a red nose, which was a fine contrast to his yellow complexion. When the red deepened to ruby color he died, rather to the delight of the district, and to the grief of his many admirers. Frau Kasimira retired to the estate of the Von Cybulskies, a small, heavily mortgaged farmhouse near Tarnopol; and the new district judge, Herr Julko von Negrusz, took up his residence in the first floor of the white house. He took the place of his predecessor at the casino also, but without frequenting it so continually as he had been used to do.

Herr von Negrusz was a man of about thirty. He was recognized at once to be an excellent jurist, and when better known, he was also considered a good fellow. A district judge in Podolia is a sort of demigod, and is either the blessing or curse of the district. Herr von Negrusz made a good use of his power. There is not much to be said about his external appearance: he was a slightly built man, with quiet brown eyes and a face that could neither be called handsome nor ugly. The custom-house officer's three sallow elderly daughters considered him a barbarian, and quite unsusceptible to the charms of women. He did not care for ladies' society.

Herr von Negrusz soon became a constant guest in the little parlor behind the grocer's shop. He went there daily when he left the office, and spent half an hour reading the newspapers before going home to the dinner prepared by his old housekeeper. As the entrance by the court was inconvenient and not very clean, he always, like most of the guests, went through the shop where Nathan Silberstein's beautiful wife superintended the business. It was his habit to pass her with a bow. He never talked and joked with her, as did most of the older men and the young officers. He had no particular reason for acting thus, except that much laughing and joking was not in his way. He may also have thought that what these men called compliments were probably objectionable to her; but if so, he was mistaken—Chane was indifferent to what they said, and regarded their talk as one of the annoyances inseparable from attendance in the shop, as, for example, the draughts. Her manner was very decided, and she was well able to protect herself from impertinence. She answered the elder men with the same lightness as they used in speaking to her, while she greeted the officers curtly and laconically. When love was made the subject of conversation, she would laugh and joke almost extravagantly. Love was not only an enigma to her, for she had never felt it, but it was positively ludicrous in her eyes. Whoever ventured, between the first and second pints, to say to her, "I love you," she openly derided and inwardly despised; but whoever attempted to slip his arm round her waist ... well, to find this out, you have only to ask little Lieutenant Albert Sturm, a forward, ill-favored, saucy young fellow, why his right cheek was once redder and rounder than his left for the space of a week.

She never needed to protect herself from word or look of the district judge. For the first three months after his arrival they did not exchange a word. Such stiffness was most unusual in Barnow, where every one knew each other, more especially as she and Herr von Negrusz inhabited the same house, and Chane expressed her surprise openly and unaffectedly to her husband.

One day Nathan stood at the shop-door for a long time in earnest conversation with the district judge and Florian von Bolwinski. At last Negrusz went away to his office, while Florian entered the shop with the merchant, in order to drink an extra glass for the good of his digestion.

"Nathan," said Chane, "what a strange man the district judge is! He must be very proud! He has never yet spoken to me."

"No, he is not at all proud," answered Nathan. "He is one of the most good-natured men I know, but he is not a great talker. Why he is so silent I can not tell—perhaps he is unhappy."

"Ho, ho!" growled Florian. "What a vain woman your wife is, Pani Nathan! We are all at her feet, but that is not enough for her. She wants young Herr Julko to be the next victim. Ho, ho, ho! All her trouble will be thrown away upon him, however, for he is already in love. God's punishment is in store for her!"

Chane waited patiently until the old toper had finished speaking: she was accustomed to his rude witticisms.

"We are not all as light-hearted as you are," she answered, "and this man really seems too sensible to be capable of falling in love."

Herr Florian put his hands on his sides and laughed and sniggered. "Ho, ho!" he gasped. "Did you ever hear such nonsense?... Ho, ho, ho!... As if only stupid people could fall in love!... Am I stupid? and—Pani Nathan, are you not jealous?—I am in love with her. To punish you, I must assure you that he is already disposed of!... his heart is buried in a grave. Ho, ho, ho!"

"Fool!" muttered Chane impatiently, while Herr Florian staggered into the casino with Nathan.

She could not get what he had told her out of her head, and in the evening, when she sat arranging business letters with her husband, who was to leave home next day, she suddenly asked—

"What did Bolwinski mean by saying that Herr von Negrusz's heart was buried in a grave?"

"I do not know," replied Nathan; "but the story goes that he was in love with a girl who died, and that he will never marry. It may be true, for Christians are fools when they are in love."

"Ah!" said Chane, staring thoughtfully at the flame of the lamp.

She soon took her pen again, and finished a letter to Moses Rosenzweig, ordering a barrel of herrings and five hundredweights of sugar from Czernowitz.

Next day a strange thing happened.

Herr Florian Bolwinski is not only a fat man, he is also a good-natured man. As he has never injured any one, he is not afraid of any one—except his landlady, although he has never injured her. He is good-natured, but he has one great fault—he tells everything that he knows, and even invents a little now and then. These additions are the fruit, partly of a vivid imagination, and partly of his numerous potations. Next morning, when he sat alone in the casino with the district judge, he related how Frau Chane had opened her heart to him, and had confessed, with torrents of tears, her mad love for Herr von Negrusz, and that she felt inclined to kill herself in despair, because the object of her passionate love did not take any notice of her, and would not waste one word upon her, even if she were dying.

Herr Florian did not make his story as short as I have given it above, but he went into every little particular, giving the most graphic descriptions of the whole scene.

He interrupted himself several times to laugh, "Ho, ho, ho!" and ejaculate, "Do you see!" He had to do this to give himself breath, for Herr von Negrusz said not a word. He listened gravely, only occasionally allowing a sarcastic smile to play upon his lips. Herr Florian disliked this smile, and as often as he saw it he could not help feeling embarrassed. This he tried to hide by adorning his tale still more. "Now what do you think of it all?" he concluded, out of breath.

"What do I think of it?" repeated the district judge. "I only admire your wonderful imagination. Adam Mickiewicz is nothing to you."

"What! what!—ho, ho! you do not believe me! My dear Herr von Negrusz, I do not deserve this. Have you ever heard me tell a lie? And besides that, what good would it do me? No; on my honor, I am speaking the truth. I was quite sorry for the poor woman. She is over head and ears in love with you. I never saw anything like it—even I, who know women so well. Over head and ears, over head and ears; and now I want to know what I am to say to her? Nathan is away—do you understand?—away for three weeks—ho, ho! The woman...."

"Herr von Bolwinski," interrupted the district judge, rising and folding up the newspapers, which he had been glancing through, "you, who are a Catholic nobleman, think you may say what you like of the wife of the Jew Silberstein behind her back. I must, however, tell you that if I did not know that the story you have just told me is a lie from the first word to the last...."

"Herr von Negrusz!..."

"I repeat it—a lie from the first word to the last. Had you really been the bearer of a message of love to me from a faithless woman, I should have declined any further acquaintance with you. You have been joking in your peculiar way, which is certainly not my way, for I object to jokes at the expense of such worthy people as this Jewish couple. I recommend you not to continue such jokes when you find any of your butts as reluctant as I...."

Herr Florian lost his temper completely. His story was not credited, and his good joke was lost. This he might have pardoned, as he was accustomed to the incredulity of his hearers, but Herr von Negrusz took his story seriously, almost tragically. He treated him like a schoolboy, and that he could not stand. He felt that his honor would not allow him to retract his words, so he rose, and with much gesticulation, said in an overbearing way—

"Do you know to whom you are speaking—do you hear? Do you know to whom you are speaking, I ask? You are speaking to me, Florian von Bolwinski. You must respect what I say; remember what is due to me. I never heard such language. A liar and a go-between, am I?... ho, ho! I must be respected. Remain virtuous if you choose, but what I tell you is true. Chane is in love with you—madly in love...."

"Be silent!"

These words, spoken in a sharp incisive voice, interrupted his flow of words. He looked toward the door, and his arms fell to his sides, the blood forsaking his cheeks. Herr von Negrusz turned crimson.

"Be silent," repeated Chane, stretching her hand toward the fat, trembling little man. Drawn up to her full height, she stood in the doorway, looking as proud and beautiful as a queen.

Herr Florian let his head sink and his under lip fall, and altogether looked very sheepish. Chane closed the door, and walked up to the two men.

"Did—you—listen?" stammered the old sinner, trying to laugh.

"I did not listen," answered Chane, emphatically. "It is not my custom to try to hear what gentlemen say in this room. It is no concern of mine. I was engaged in that part of the shop where the spices are; it is so close to the door that I could not help overhearing. It was bitter enough to do so, but it is harder still to be obliged to speak for myself." As she said this the hot blood rushed to her face. She hesitated, and then continued: "But Nathan is not at home, and I am compelled to tell you myself, to your face, Herr von Bolwinski, that you are a liar. Yesterday I did ask my husband if Herr von Negrusz was proud, as he never spoke to me, as other gentlemen do. I meant nothing wrong, and therefore, Herr von Bolwinski ... you ... you ought to be ashamed...."

Herr von Bolwinski did as he was bid; he was ashamed. His face fell, and his eyes sought the ground. Herr von Negrusz, on the contrary, fixed his eyes upon Chane. It was dangerous, even for one whose heart was "buried in the grave," to drink in her marvelous beauty.

"I thank Herr von Negrusz," continued Chane, with increasing hesitation, and blushing more deeply than before, "for showing a friendly interest in Nathan and me; and if he will not speak to me, I must speak to him, and tell him that he is rightly called a noble-minded man, and for my part, I thank him...."

Like Herr Florian, the district judge found no words of reply, and looked down somewhat abashed. He seized his hat, and bowing respectfully, left the room.

His old housekeeper, who had a great regard for him, was distressed at his loss of appetite that evening, for he sent away his favorite dishes almost untouched.

The days passed, and imperceptibly a bond of love was formed between these two hearts, which was sinful and criminal in the sight of God and man.

The scene in the little wine-shop had had no apparent consequences, except that Herr von Bolwinski took the rest of his potations at home that day. Of course he took an extra quantity, to console him for what he considered his undeserved rebuff. Next day he appeared as usual, passing Chane in the shop.

Herr von Negrusz also came as usual in the middle of the day. That he should do so was not a matter of surprise. It was, however, astonishing that things went on in the old way. Bolwinski continued his customary badinage, and getting no reply from Chane, he said, "Ho, ho! you are proud, but I love you all the same!" while Herr von Negrusz only bowed as before.

What was his reason?

It is not difficult for people to deceive themselves when they wish to do so. "I will not speak to her," he said to himself, "lest I should give the old gossip an opportunity for sarcasm, or the invention of fresh slanders." At the same time he was conscious that this was not his real reason, and sometimes he was childish enough to be angry with the woman whose beauty tempted his heart to be untrue to its natural sense of honor.

It was not the bashfulness of which the lively Emilie accused him; because, after she had on one occasion pressed his hand confidentially, he had not offered to shake hands with her again. Neither was it that "unsusceptibility to the charms of women" of which the three graces complained. No sensible, clever man is ever bashful, and what did his unsusceptibility amount to? Alas! the beautiful and outraged woman had made a deeper impression on his heart than was altogether pleasant to him. The wanton conduct of Herr von Bolwinski had placed him in such a peculiar position toward a woman with whom he was unacquainted, that he could not hit upon the right tone or words with which to address her. He certainly did not feel at ease in her presence, although he swore to himself that he was so. He continually said to himself, "I will not speak to her, so that that wicked old woman in trousers may have no reason for chatter; besides, I have nothing to talk to her about." He knew that he was deceiving himself, and that he was behaving badly; but as time passed on, he found it more and more impossible to break the silence which he knew to be a mistake. He longed to know what she thought of him.

And Chane never spoke of him, even to her husband. She had talked about him openly before the scene in the wine-room, and now she could do so no longer. She did not even tell Nathan, on his return home after a month's absence, of the gross conduct of Herr von Bolwinski. "Why should I make him angry?" she thought; but she knew that she was unwilling to mention the name of Herr von Negrusz. An inexplicable reticence prevented her from doing so. She thought so much about him, and yet she could not speak of him. Every day her imagination took a different turn. Sometimes she thought it was not nice of him to treat her with such marked indifference; and at other times she wondered if the haughty Christian really believed she was in love with him, and wished to show her that she was nothing to him. "He need not do that," she thought, "for he is certainly nothing to me. But then he stood up for me nobly, and perhaps he does not intend to give that fat, ugly Bolwinski an opportunity for further lies. It must be true that his heart is buried in the grave. He loves a dead woman so truly that he will never speak to a living one. He does not even talk to the custom-house officer's wife. How is it possible to love one who is dead—and what is love?..."

The Power that shapes our lives often uses strange means. Two people were being brought together who were not on speaking terms!

They maintained silence for three long months, though they saw one another daily. The summer passed away, the yellow leaves in the monastery garden began to fall; the vintage came, and Nathan started on his long rounds through Hungary and Moldavia. He was to return on the Sabbath before the great feast. "Take care of yourself, and see that you get good vinegar out of the spoiled must," were his parting words. He embraced his wife, calmly kissing her on the brow. He little thought that he did so for the last time.

One beautiful sunny day in September Chane was busy in the shop, and Herr von Bolwinski and the collector of taxes were talking politics in the casino. Everything was as usual. Herr von Negrusz stepped into the shop. He lifted his hat, and was passing on, but was prevented by a cask of herrings, which filled the passage.

"You must come round here," said Chane, pointing behind the counter.

"Thank you," he said, passing her. Then he stopped, and added, "You are making changes here." He wished to say something, and could think of nothing better.

"Yes; for the fruit season."

"There is a splendid crop this year...."

"Particularly of apples...."

"And the wine promises well, I hear. Where is Herr Nathan just now?"

"At Hegyallja, I believe; but I do not know for certain. He has not much time for writing when he is traveling. Perhaps he is at Tokay now." Pride in the flourishing state of the business here triumphed over her shyness, and she continued: "We opened up a good trade with Potocki and Czartoryski last spring, so we now import wines direct from Tokay, as well as from the Rhine."

"I congratulate you on doing so well!" he said, lightly, and passed into the casino.

This was their first conversation, and Herr von Bolwinski could not have found any love-making in it, even after his thirtieth pint.

The ice was, however, broken, and many similar conversations followed, sometimes about the weather, or trade, or little everyday events. It was strange that while they were on distant terms, they were shy of one another; but on knowing each other better, they became firm friends. They might now be said to stand at cross-roads. Their simple daily intercourse might put an end to the peculiar feelings toward each other that had been produced by their first acquaintance, and subsequent coldness of manner; or it might bring about a still more dangerous juxtaposition. They were unconscious of the different paths that lay before them, and as they saw more of one another, and enjoyed the pleasure of each other's society more and more, they did not know that they had already entered upon the road which must lead to sorrow and renunciation, or to shame....

Surely, had they known they would not have ventured on dangerous subjects of conversation, which gave opportunities for the expression of deep feeling and the revelation of each other's hearts. For instance, she allowed him to know that Herr von Bolwinski had told her of his love for one who had died. She almost joked about it, but was immediately sorry when she saw the gravity of his face.

"I have wounded you," she said, regretfully.

"No, no," he answered, "but I should have liked to be the first to tell you."

He then told her the simple story of his first love.

When he was a student in Munich he had fallen in love with a young girl of noble family, to whom he gave lessons. She returned his affection; but the world was too strong for them, and she married some one else, only to die after a short wedded life.

To the Jewess his story sounded like a fairy tale. A few months before, she would not have understood his feeling at all, and even now it was partly incomprehensible to her. She showed this by her next question.

"And you love her still?" she asked.

"She is dead," he replied, "and I do not love her in the same way as I loved the living woman; but her memory will be dear to me as long as I live. I shall never forget her."

Chane looked thoughtfully before her.

"Love must be strong," she whispered.

He made no reply. Perhaps he had not heard what she said.

Weeks fled rapidly, and the time of the great feast came nearer. Nathan would soon return home, and they talked of him continually, praising his industry, his honorable character, and his good honest heart. It is surprising that they should have spoken of him so often, but perhaps they did it because they felt they ought to strengthen their recollection of his existence. He was the barrier that stood between them, and respect for him was their last safeguard.

The day of Nathan's arrival dawned; it was the Friday before the Jewish new year. The decisive word was yet unspoken. The fatal time was, however, near when the scales should fall from their eyes, and they should see the abyss that yawned beneath them.

It was October. The rain had fallen ceaselessly all night, making the country and the dark little town look doubly desolate. Toward morning the wind rose and scattered the clouds, blowing down the narrow, tortuous streets, and robbing the poplars of the last red leaves that clung to their branches. It was one of those miserable days when sorrow and loneliness seem doubly heavy to those who have to bear their weight.

Chane was alone in the shop. No customers were likely to come in such weather. She watched the wind sporting with the leaves. Without any apparent reason for unhappiness, her heart felt heavy.

At last Rosel Juster came in. She was a very poor, but pretty and lively girl. She made great purchases of sugar, almonds, raisins, and spices.

"You are preparing for your betrothal," said Chane in a friendly tone. "I have heard of it, and wish you every happiness. He is a lucky man."

"Thank you," answered the girl; "the betrothal is to be on Tuesday, and the wedding will be on the second Sabbath after that. We have to think of his little children—he is a widower."

"You will have a great deal to do."

"Oh, I should think nothing of the work, but he has a sister living with him, and he is an old man; but what is the good of talking about it?"

"Then you would rather not marry him?"

Rosel looked at her in surprise. "When are we women ever consulted as to what we should like?" she asked. "I am a poor girl, and he takes me, and provides for me—that is all that I have to do with it." She shrugged her shoulders, passed her hand over her eyes, and went on quickly: "Please give me two ounces of ginger."

Chane said no more, but turned to weigh out the requisite quantity of ginger. Her hands trembled as she twisted up the little paper packet, and she made several mistakes with the weights.

"You are not well, I am sure," said Rosel, as she prepared to go. "You look so pale!"

"I am tired," answered Chane, sinking into a chair.

As the door closed behind the girl, she let her face fall between her hands, and sat a long time buried in thought. The words spoken by Rosel rang in her ears: "When are we women ever consulted as to what we should like? I am a poor girl, and he has taken me, and provided for me, that is all—my God, all!..."

She kept her eyes firmly closed, but she could not shut them to the truth any longer. Her whole life lay before her, and she knew that she was living a lie. "I belong to Nathan, body and soul—not because it was my will—not because it was his will—but because our fathers desired it. And now, when I feel that I am a human being, with a heart and will of my own—when I love another, I must either be miserable, or ..."

She did not finish her sentence, for she was no longer able to control her thoughts. She was filled with self-commiseration, and burning tears fell from her eyes. She forgot where she was, and that he whom she loved, and yet feared to meet, might come at any moment. She was first roused by the monastery bell ringing at twelve o'clock, and tried to recover her composure.

It was too late. He stood within the door he had just opened.

They had never hitherto spoken of their love for each other. They had scarcely known that it existed. But when he came near her, and took her hand in his, gazing into her large, soft, tearful eyes, which were fixed pathetically upon his face, their love was revealed to him, and all the sorrow it must bring. She, too, knew that her love was returned as he gently smoothed her hair back from her forehead, and tried to comfort her. Then he let her hands fall and left her side.

"We shall have much to endure," he said, as if their love and all its consequences were mutually understood. "But we must be firm. I have much to say to you, but this is not the right time or place; and this evening"—he hesitated, and then continued: "your husband is coming back, and I will not ask you to give me an interview in secret from him. I will write to you, and tell you what I think we ought to do."

He pressed her hand and went into the casino.

Chane got up from her chair, and sent the apprentice, who had been rubbing up the silver and brass utensils in preparation for the feast, into the shop. She remained in the kitchen preparing for the Sabbath, and for the return of her husband. She did everything carefully, but her manner was different from usual.

"Have you a headache, ma'am?" asked the maid-servant, seeing her suddenly clasp her hands upon her brow, as if she were trying to recollect something. She felt confused and at a loss, but yet there was some secret source of joy.

In the evening the office-boy brought her a note.

"From the district judge to your husband," he said; but when she opened the envelope, she found that it contained a letter addressed to herself. She did not open it, trembling for its purport.

Dusk had fallen, and candles were brought. She repeated the beautiful old prayer dutifully, that light and peace should dwell in the house, and that God's mercy should avert every sorrow, pain, and grief.... She knew the few words of the formula by heart, and yet this evening they fell slowly from her lips. She doubted that she was worthy to pray to God—she a Jewess, who had in her possession a letter from her Christian lover!

Overcome with fatigue and anxiety, she sank upon a chair, and looked at the outside of the letter. It was sealed. It was a sin to break a seal upon the Sabbath. "It is not my greatest sin," she thought, as she tore open the letter.

Herr von Negrusz wrote of his love for her, and that he must die or go mad without her. "Become a Christian, and be my wife. The sin against your husband will not be so great as the sin against our love, if you refuse. I know that you love me. Only tell me that you will come to me, and all else is my care."

She crushed the letter in her hand, and threw it down. Then she picked it up, straightened it out, and reread it. Her hands fell from the table, and bending over them, her tears fell fast. She stammered convulsively: "O my God! help me, enlighten me. Let me not become like Esther Freudenthal, and end my days in shame and remorse. I have been a faithful wife.... I can not break my marriage vows ... but I love him, and feel that life is worthless away from him. He is a good man ... but were he as wicked as the hussar who ruined Esther.... O my God! desert me not...."

Crying thus in the agony of her soul, she did not hear the door open, or a man's step behind her. A hand was laid upon her shoulder. She looked up, her husband stood before her.

"Thank God!" he cried, joyfully, "I am home at last. The storm has made the roads...." He stopped and looked at her.... "Chane," he added, anxiously, "how ill you look! what is the matter?"

She did not answer, and his glance fell on the letter. He reached toward it, and she did not try to stop him. He read the first line, and became as pale as death. "To you—writing to you thus!" He read a little further, and then looked at the signature. "From him! This is a blow I did not expect." He read on. His eyes seemed starting out of their sockets, his hand trembled, and his face showed how he suffered. "What?" he cried, when he had reached a certain point. "What? Is this true?" He ceased, and she slipped on to the floor and clasped his knees, while he finished reading the letter.

He then threw it on the table, and bending over her, said sternly, "Rise and be seated."

She obeyed.

"I only wish to know one thing," he went on, standing in front of her—"the Christian writes that you love him.... Is it not a lie?... Chane, the Christian lies?..."

Lower and lower she bent her head. "Kill me," she said, "for I deserve it. What he writes is true. I do love him."

Nathan started convulsively. His usually placid features were strangely agitated. "The truth!" he hissed; "and you remain in my house, you false wife?"

She looked him in the face with flashing eyes.

"Nathan!" she cried, "I swear by my dead mother that he touched my hand to-day for the first time."

He gave a short laugh.

"What if I believe you?" he said. "Shall we divide you between us? Shall I possess you, and he have your love? Are you not mine, body and soul? and if you could not be altogether mine, why did you become my wife?"

She stepped close up to him, and said, with a despairing gesture, and a sharp ring in her voice: "Do not be so hard, Nathan. I have been a true wife to you; but when you ask why I married you, I reply, that my wishes were never consulted."

Her words seemed to strike him, for he could not answer, and there was a long silence.

She buried her face in the sofa-cushions.

At last he said, "Go—we will talk of this to-morrow."

She left the room.

He bolted the door and resumed his restless pacing up and down. The old servant knocked at the door—she had brought the supper-tray, but he dismissed her at once. She went away grumbling, and he heard her afterward saying to the cook: "God knows what is the matter! The master has locked himself into the parlor, and the mistress is in her bedroom. Neither of them will have any supper."

A hot flush of shame mounted quickly to Nathan's face.

"The servants suspect something already," he thought, "and soon all the world will wonder what has happened. Old Jutta is right; God alone knows what misery has fallen on my house, and God alone can help, for I know not what to do."

He threw himself down on the sofa, and thought it all over again, but he could not keep still, and soon started up and began to walk up and down the room again.

"How foolish it was of me to say that God alone could help!" he thought. "God can not be expected to work miracles for our individual needs. What can God do but let him die, or me?—that would solve the difficulty."

He pressed his burning brow on the window-pane, and stared out into the darkness. "I possessed a treasure, and I did not know its value until another, who was wiser than I, came and took it from me. Perhaps—perhaps I deserve it....

"Deserve it!" he repeated. "No, no, she is my wife, and whoever takes her from me is a robber and a coward....

"He is a coward!... He, who always used to be such a good, straightforward man. I can scarcely believe that he could have been so wicked.... It must have been her fault—her fault alone.

"But oh, is a wife like other property, as I have always thought? Is she no more than any other chattel, such as an ornament or a house? Has she not a will like every other human being? And has that will ever been consulted?...

"That was the sin, and now we are suffering from its consequences.

"I was not to blame in those old days; nor was she. And we have lived irreproachably for many years. The punishment for that sin has come upon us now; and on which of us is the expiation to fall?...

"Can I give her up? If I do, my heart will break; but my heart must not decide. I must not think of myself; but try to find out whether it would not be a sin against God and the law. Ought I to let my wife leave me, and become the mistress of a Christian, or even become a Christian herself? Ought I to bring such shame upon the name of our God and upon his people?"

He drew himself up to his full height, and stretched out his hand toward heaven: "Though my heart and hers should break, Thy name shall not be dishonored, my Lord and my God."

His hand fell slowly, and he paused. "Alas!" he whispered, "has not Thy name even now been dishonored? Has she not spread her hands out to Thee above the lights in my house, with the image of the Christian in her heart? Could any sin be greater? Is it Thy will that this wickedness should go on for the rest of our lives? Is it Thy will, O God?"

He sat down, and bent his head upon the table. "I do not know what to do," he exclaimed aloud. "Help me, O God! Thou hast revealed Thy will through Thy priests and Thy prophets. I will study the law."

He went to the bookcase and took out a large folio. As he did so, a little book that had been lying behind it fell on the floor. He did not observe it, and carried the folio to the table, opened it, and began to read.

He read for a long time, consulting different parts of it. At last he closed the book sharply, stood up, and resting his clinched fist heavily upon it, said, mournfully:

"The law does not help me; there is nothing in it at all applicable to a case such as this. The oldest law ordains that 'she should be stoned.' And the law of the Talmud is this: 'Let her die because of her sin, if the laws of the land in which ye live permit. If not, let the guilty woman be thrust out of her husband's house, and let her return to her father, who shall then punish and correct her as shall seem good in his eyes. She shall be without honor and without rights, excluded from all inheritance, and deprived of family ties....'

"The law does not apply to us," he repeated. "She has been weak, not criminal. She has not deceived me—she is mine; but, alas! her heart does not belong to me. It never did, and I never thought of trying to make it mine. The law does not apply; and who can show me a higher law?"

Sighing deeply, he replaced the folio on the shelf, but when he tried to close the doors of the bookcase, he found that the little volume which had fallen unobserved prevented his doing so. He picked it up and looked at it. Memories of the past came back in a flood as he recognized the German book he had read so often as a youth. He had never quite understood its contents, and yet had studied it again and again, because of the sympathetic emotion it aroused in him. Schiller's poems, which he had laid aside for so many years, came into his hands again at this dark hour of his life....

He sat down at the table, opened the book, and began to read. His youthful days returned vividly to his mind. One poem he had read beneath the old oak-tree in the park, and another he had surreptitiously studied in a corner of the cellar when he was overlooking his father's workmen. As he read on, he found to his surprise that he understood the whole meaning of the poems, and yet he had learned nothing new since these old days, except perhaps the secrets of the wine-trade. Each poem made a deep impression on him. It was so different from all that he had found in it before! Whether better or worse he did not stop to inquire; but the influence must have been good, for his heart felt relieved of the load that had oppressed it.

He rose and walked about the room in the stillness of the early Sabbath, repeating in a whisper some of the words he had just read. The only sound that was to be heard was the sputtering of one or other of the numerous wax-lights, or the fall of a heavy rain-drop against the window-pane.

Morning came at last. The rain had ceased falling, and the last clouds were being driven by the wind across the leaden sky. In the east the sun was beginning to redden, and send its first bright rays upon the sodden plain: it had also penetrated to Nathan's parlor.

It found him still awake, but he was no longer restless, or speaking to himself. He stood quietly by the window, his face turned toward the east. The reflection of the sunrise lighted up his pale worn face, on which the calmness and peace of determined action were expressed. His eyes were fixed steadily on the east, and he seemed to be praying, though his lips did not move.

He had stood there a long time communing with God in the silence of the early morning.

The other inmates of the house began to stir. The servants held whispered consultations; they guessed that something unusual had happened.

Chane left her room. Her face was pale, and her eyes were red with weeping. She approached Nathan with bent head.

"Chane," he said, gently, "I have made up my mind. I hope that what I mean to do will be for the best for you—and for him. As for me, our God is a merciful God—He will not forsake me."

He spoke the last words in so low a voice that she did not hear them. She blushed deeply, but did not speak. A moment later she hurried from the room, and after a long absence, returned with his breakfast.

That done, they went to the synagogue together as usual; and no one seeing them had the least idea of the agony of heart they were both enduring.

"Thank God! there is nothing wrong," said old Jutta to the other maid-servant when she saw them come home together, and sit down to their dinner as usual.

Nathan soon rose, saying, "Be not afraid. I am going to speak to him now. You shall know our decision in half an hour."

He went up-stairs to the rooms occupied by Herr von Negrusz. The district judge was seated at his writing-table. He seemed confused when he saw the husband of the woman he loved. He expected a painful scene.

Nathan's manner was very quiet, and after a courteous greeting, he said: "Herr von Negrusz, your confusion shows that you know the reason of my visit. You wrote this letter to my wife, but before I give you the answer, tell me—why did you do it? Is not the commandment, 'Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife,' as binding upon you as upon me?"

"Yes," answered Herr von Negrusz, "I know that I am guilty of a great sin—I love your wife. I make no excuse for myself."

"I am glad you have answered so candidly," said Nathan. "I have nothing further to say, except to give you the answer to your letter. My wife returns your love, therefore she can not be my wife any longer; and I shall take the proper steps to obtain a divorce. What shall you do then, Herr von Negrusz?"

"So help me God, I will marry her!" he replied, earnestly.

Nathan looked at him keenly. "Good," he said. "I have no doubt that you intend to do so, for you are an honorable man; but you are a Government official, a Christian, and of noble birth. She is only a Jewess. You are educated; Chane is not. You may afterward be influenced by these considerations, and repudiate your present plan of action. I must guard against your doing so; for Chane was my wife, and the moment she leaves me for your sake, her father and the whole Jewish community will cast her off. Should you break your promise, I shall take her back, for I—but enough of that. I tell you plainly, if you do not marry her, I will kill you, so help me God! You are the district judge, and I am nothing but a Jew. You have a hundred means at your disposal of getting rid of me, but I will keep my word."

Herr von Negrusz raised his hand, and was about to protest, but Nathan interrupted him hastily: "Do not swear," he said, "but keep your word, so that I may not have to keep mine. Chane and I will be divorced in a few days, and if she is not your wife before the end of two months, you are a dead man. Farewell."

He went home and said to his wife: "We will go to the Rabbi to-morrow, and tell him that we have an insurmountable dislike to each other, and he will at once give us a divorce on that account. The Christian has promised to marry you. Had that not been his intention before, it is now...."

"Nathan!" she cried, throwing herself at his feet, and covering his hand with tears and kisses—"Nathan, how good you are!"

"No," he answered, "I am not good. I am only doing what I consider to be my duty. I am atoning for a sin that was committed through no fault of mine. We were married without our feelings being consulted. That was a sin, and it is expiated now; for I love you, although perhaps I did not know it until yesterday, and you do not love me—but another. I can not doom you to misery; rather than do that, I suffer myself. This is the plain state of the case, and I claim no merit for what I am doing. What distresses me most is that you will leave our faith, and that I enable you to do so. I have prayed so earnestly to God for pardon, that I hope He will forgive me. He sees my heart, and He knows that I have no choice."

There is little more to tell.

Nathan obtained a divorce in the course of a few days, and a few weeks after, Chane—now Christine—married Herr von Negrusz.

There had not been such a scandal in the neighborhood for years. Curses and malevolence followed Chane to her new home; and even those who wished her well, shook their heads over the marriage.

The reader already knows that the curses were fruitless, and the fears of the benevolent unfounded. That Chane lived, a happy wife and mother, in the same house, on the threshold of which Esther Freudenthal had died because she had loved a Christian. This time love had triumphed over creed. It seemed to work miracles: for not only did it overlap barriers, but in spite of the objectionable features of the case, and the dissimilarity of the husband and wife, theirs was a happy marriage. For theirs was true love, and true love is a mighty power, a divine gift, without which it is a sin against God and man to enter into any marriage.

Christine von Negrusz has only one sorrow. It is not that Frau Emilie will hardly speak to her, or that the three elderly "Graces" look the other way when they chance to meet; nor is it the sardonic smile with which Herr von Bolwinski accompanies the words—"I was the first to notice it, ho, ho!" whenever he has the opportunity. None of these things distress her; but a real shadow lies upon her otherwise happy life.

This is the wrath of her father, which will probably never cease until the lonely, disappointed old man finds peace in the grave.

Nathan took great pains to save her this one sorrow, but he was not successful. He does not yet give up hope of a reconciliation, and every time he revisits Barnow, he tries to soften the old man's heart.

But Nathan is seldom at Barnow, and when he returns there two or three times in the year, his visits are short. His business in the little town is managed for him by a cousin, and he travels to distant countries. He is no longer a small shop-keeper, but one of the richest wine-merchants in the country.

He has never married again. Once it was supposed that he was engaged to a girl in Czernowitz, but it was not the case. Only one person knew the reason of his solitude, and this was Frau Christine.

This she learned the only time she ever saw him to speak to after their separation. Nathan and Herr von Negrusz always met with friendly feelings, and when the former was at home, the two boys were continually with him; but he had avoided any meeting with Christine until now. It was at the time that people said that he was going to be married again. The boys were sitting with Nathan on the bench at the house-door, and as it was late, their mother came to fetch them. They ran to meet her, showed her the presents Nathan had brought for them, and dragged her up to the bench.

"I must thank you, Herr Silberstein," she said, in a trembling voice; but she corrected herself quickly, and went on—"I must thank you, Nathan, for being so kind to the children."

"They are such dear little boys," he said, hastily. "I am very glad, Chane, to see you so happy."

"Yes," she answered, "I am very happy—and you?"

"Thank you," he said, quietly; "the business is prospering."

"The other day I heard some good news about you—from Czernowitz."

"There is nothing in it," he answered.

"Oh, why? She is said to be a good and pretty girl."

He looked at her, and then on the ground. "I found that I could not love her," he said.

Many years have passed since then, and Nathan is one of the richest men in the country. People wonder why he works so hard when he has no one to leave his riches to. But Nathan smiles at such questions—he knows that he is working for some one.