“I was reading the Pentateuch aloud one night,” explained Koppel, “and she caught the words Urim and Thummim. They pleased her, and she has not forgotten them.” I have not said that Rebecca was pretty. She was more than pretty; there was a light in her baby face that bespoke a glorious womanhood. There was a quiet dignity in her baby manners that can be found only among the children of the Orient. She was a winsome child, and during the day, when her father was at work, the children from far and near would come to make a pet of her. The strike was at an end, and Koppel was discharged. When I came to the house a few days later Rebecca was eating a piece of dry bread, saving a few crumbs for Urim and Thummim. Koppel, in gloomy silence, was watching her. “She is not well,” he said. “She has had nothing to eat but bread for three days. I must send her to an institution.” The next morning the doctor was there, prescribing for her in a perfunctory way, for it was merely a charity case. She smiled feebly when she saw me, and handed me a doll that lay beside her. “It’s Thummim,” I said. “Won’t you give me Urim?” She shook her head and smiled. She was holding Urim against her breast. * * * * * It happened ten years ago, and it seems but yesterday. The day was warm and sultry—almost as close as this crowded hall. The streets of the Ghetto were filled with the market throng, and the air hummed with the music of life. The whole picture rises clearly, now—as clearly as the platform from which the enthusiastic speaker’s voice resounds through the hall. A white hearse stands before the house. The driver, unaided, bears a tiny coffin out of the gloomy hallway into the bright sunshine. The group of idlers make way for him, and look on with curiosity, as he deposits his burden within the hearse. There are no carriages. There are no flowers. Koppel walks slowly out of the house, his eyes fastened upon the sidewalk, his lips moving as if he were muttering to himself. In his hand he carries two broken dolls. Without looking to right or left, he climbs beside the driver, and the hearse rattles down the street. I mounted the stairs to his home, and found everything as it had been when I was there last—everything save Koppel and Rebecca, and Urim and Thummim, and these I never saw again. A YIDDISH IDYLL _Die Liebe ist eine alte Geschichte._ In German they call it “Die Liebe.” The French, as every school-girl knows, call it “L’Amour.” It is known to the Spanish and the Italians, and, unless I am greatly mistaken, it was known even in Ur of the Chaldeans, the city that was lost before the dawn of ancient Greece.