“I think I am a sort of heathen,” the girl repeated slowly, with thoughtful eyes. “I am no more a Jewess at heart than our baby is a Jew. I have tried to love the Jewish religion for your sake, Lal, but I can’t succeed. It seems so full of ceremonies which are beyond my comprehension, and which puzzle me dreadfully. I am afraid you must be very disappointed in me, dear.” “Not at all. I never expected you to follow in my mother’s steps. _She_ has all the claims of ancestry and old association to make her love her faith; you have nothing except your love for me.” “It is of our child I am thinking,” she continued quietly. “How can I teach him his faith as a mother ought to do?” “Leave it to his grandmother,” Montella advised carelessly. “It will be a task after her own heart. There is no need to worry yourself about that, dear; I assure you little Julian will grow up a strict enough Jew.” Patricia sighed. “I am glad you are not dissatisfied with me, Lionel,” she said, placing her hand within his own. “Sometimes I have thought—and Lady Montella has hinted—that you would have been happier with a Jewish wife.” Lionel sat bolt upright and pressed her hand to his lips. “Stuff and nonsense,” he returned, with indignation. “You will make me very angry if you have such foolish thoughts. I would not exchange you for all the Jewesses in the world.” Then he laughed at the idea conjured up by his last sentence, but added seriously, “Has my mother said anything to make you unhappy, dear?” “Oh, no, nothing at all. It is not what she says—” She broke off abruptly, and was silent for a moment, whilst the colour rushed into her cheeks. “I love you so passionately, Lionel, that I cannot bear to think there is any flaw in your love for me,” she continued hurriedly. “And when these Jewish ceremonies crop up, they seem like barriers to drive us away from each other. And I thought when Ben Yetzel was here that you were a little bit ashamed of my ignorance of the Jewish laws. And that is why—because I love you—I have been so anxious to learn.” She nestled her head against his shoulder, and a tear fell with a splash on to his coat. Montella was startled beyond measure, for she was a woman who seldom wept. Either she was suffering from debility, or there must be some serious cause for her emotion. Hastily he jumped to the former conclusion—his beloved could not be well.