“Death of Mr. Lawrence Campbell!... Sudden death of the Premier!” The words fell on the ears of the congregation like a knell. The reader paused almost imperceptibly in his chanting, the majority of the people looked at each other in horrified surprise. The name of Lawrence Campbell was synonymous with all that was noble and good, and as a loyal friend of the Jews, he had ever earned their respect and affection. Although he had occupied the high office of Prime Minister for over ten years, he was comparatively a young man, and his death came as a totally unexpected blow. What it would mean to the community remained to be seen, but like a sudden ray of light the possible consequence flashed across Lionel Montella’s mind. He sank on to his seat with his brain in a whirl, and in spite of the temporary feeling of weakness brought on by his long hours of fasting, tried to think clearly. He alone of all his co-religionists knew the true and perilous position of the Jews in modern Europe at the present day. The Alien Immigration question had reached a crisis which would have to be settled at Parliament’s next session, and the issue practically depended on the unreliable temper of the Government. Various expedients for colonisation had been tried without success, for the Jews, never having been “hewers of wood and drawers of water,” did not take kindly to the manual labour necessitated by such colonisation. What form the next experiment would take, therefore, was a difficult and vexed question, and one which the Premier and his subordinate, Montella, had been threshing out together for weeks. And now Lawrence Campbell, the chief, almost the only, enthusiastic champion of the Jews in Great Britain was dead. No wonder the young politician’s heart grew faint within him! The signal that the long day’s service was at an end—the blowing of the ram’s horn—recalled him to himself; and folding up his talith, he made his way with the others to the vestibule. The refreshing breeze from the street came as a blessed relief after the close atmosphere of the interior of the synagogue, and he leant against the balustrade for a moment before searching for his hansom. All around him the people were dispersing, and as he listened to their kindly greetings to each other, he realised the close bond of unity—more evident in the Jewish than in any other faith—which drew them together with irresistible force. A few of the men with whom he was acquainted came up to him to shake hands. One—the treasurer of the synagogue—lingered for a few moments’ conversation. “Sudden thing this—death of the Premier,” he remarked, attacking the subject which was uppermost in his mind. “Heart failure, Cohen says. Struck down all in a minute. Bad thing for the Chosen, I’m afraid.” “Yes, very,” Montella returned seriously, with emphasis on the words. “I saw poor Campbell only last week. I had no idea that he was subject to heart attacks.”