“And let us fix you up a bit,” Gottlieb would chime in. “And become more progressive—like the other men of your age in this country.” “And wear your beard shorter and trimmed differently.” “And learn to speak English.” Shadrach never lost his temper; never upbraided them. He would look from one to the other and keep his lips tightly pressed together. And when they had gone he would look at Marta and would say: “Tell me what you think, Marta. Tell me what you think.” “It is not proper for me to interfere between father and sons,” Marta would say. And Shadrach could never induce her to tell him what she thought. But he could perceive a gleam in her eyes and observed a certain nervous vigour in the way she cleaned the pots and pans for hours after these talks, that fell soothingly upon his perturbed spirit. * * * * * As we remarked before, there is no rule for the turning of the worm. Some worms, however, turn with a crash. It was so with Shadrach Cohen. Gottlieb informed his father that he contemplated getting married. “She is very beautiful,” he said. “The affair is all in the hands of the Shadchen.” His father’s face lit up with pleasure. “Gottlieb,” he said, holding out his hand, “God bless you! It’s the very best thing you could do. Marta, bring me my hat and coat. Come, Gottlieb. Take me to see her. I cannot wait a moment. I want to see my future daughter-in-law at once. How happy your mother would be if she were alive to-day!” Gottlieb turned red and hung back. “I think, father,” he said, “you had better not go just yet. Let us wait a few days until the Shadchen has made all the arrangements. She is an American girl. She—she won’t—er—understand your ways—don’t you know? And it may spoil everything.” Crash! Marta had dropped an iron pot that she was cleaning. Shadrach was red in the face with suppressed rage. “So!” he said. “It has come to this. You are ashamed of your father!” Then he turned to the old servant: “Marta,” he said, “to-morrow we become Americanised—you and I.” There was an intonation in his voice that alarmed his son. “You are not angry——” he began, but with a fierce gesture his father cut him short. “Not another word. To bed! Go to bed at once.” Gottlieb was dumbfounded. With open mouth he stared at his father. He had not heard that tone since he was a little boy. “But, father——” he began. “Not a word. Do you hear me? Not a word will I listen to. In five minutes if you are not in bed you go out of this house. Remember, this is my house.” Then he turned to Abel. Abel was calmly smoking a cigar. “Throw that cigar away,” his father commanded, sternly. Abel gasped and looked at his father in dismay. “Marta, take that cigar out of his mouth and throw it into the fire. If he objects he goes out of the house.”