Urim was a doll that had lost both legs and an arm, but its cheeks, when I first saw it, were still pink, and, in spite of its misfortunes, it wore a smile that never faded. Thummim was also a doll, somewhat more rugged than Urim, but gloomy and frowning, in spite of its state of preservation. Koppel and Rebecca agreed that Urim was by far the more interesting of the two, but the two had come into the household together, and to discard Thummim was altogether out of the question. Koppel was a cloakmaker, and it was during the big strike that I first met him. Of all the members of that big trades-union he alone had continued to work when the strike was declared, and they all cursed him. Pleading and threats alike were of no avail to induce him to leave the shop; for the paltry pittance that he could earn he abandoned his union and violated his oath of affiliation. At every meeting he was denounced, his name was hissed, he was an outcast among his kind. When I tapped upon his door there was no response. I opened it and beheld a child with raven hair, so busily occupied with undressing a doll that she did not look up until I asked: “Is Mr. Koppel in?” She turned with a start and gazed at me in astonishment. Her big, brown eyes were opened wide at the apparition of a stranger, yet she did not seem at all alarmed. After a moment’s hesitation—the door was still open—she approached me and held out the doll. “Urim!” she said. I took it, and with a happy smile she ran to a corner of the room, where, from under a table, she dragged another doll. “T’ummim!” she said, holding it out to me. Then Koppel entered the room. He knew me, although I had never seen him before, and readily guessed the object of my errand. “You are from the newspaper,” he said. “You want to know why I did not strike.” When the lamplight fell upon his countenance I saw that he was a miserable-looking creature, servile in his manner, and repulsive to the eye. He did not appear to be very strong, and the climb of the stairs seemed to have exhausted him. He sat down, and the girl climbed upon his knee. She threw her arm around his neck, and, looking up at me with a pretty smile, said: “Urim—T’ummim—mine!” Koppel stroked her head, and a look of deep love came into his eyes, and then I began to understand. “She has no mother,” he said. “I must pay a woman to give her food. I—I can’t strike—can I?” One of the dolls slipped from my hand and fell to the floor. “Urim!” cried the little one, slipping hastily from her father’s knee to pick it up. Tenderly she examined the doll’s head; it was unscathed. Then she looked up at me and held out her arms, and her mouth formed into a rosebud. It was a charming picture, altogether out of place—naïve, picturesque, utterly delightful. “You must go to bed,” said her father, sternly. “The foolish thing wants you to kiss her.” We became friends—Koppel, Rebecca, Urim, Thummim, and I.