"No, I know no trade," he said bitterly. "At home, as thou art aware, I was a stone-mason, but here I could get no work without breaking the Sabbath, and my hand has forgotten its cunning. Perhaps I shall get my hand back." He took hers in the meantime. It was limp and chill, though so near the fire. "Have courage." he said. "There is naught I can do here that will not shame Miriam. We cannot even go into an almshouse without shedding her blood. But the Holy One, blessed be He, is good. I will go away." "Go away!" Beenah's clammy hand tightened her clasp of his. "Thou wilt travel with ware in the country?" "No. If it stands written that I must break with my children, let the gap be too wide for repining. Miriam will like it better. I will go to America." "To America!" Beenah's heartbeat wildly. "And leave me?" A strange sense of desolation swept over her. "Yes--for a little, anyhow. Thou must not face the first hardships. I shall find something to do. Perhaps in America there are more Jewish stone-masons to get work from. God will not desert us. There I can sell ware in the streets--do as I will. At the worst I can always fall back upon glaziering. Have faith, my dove." The novel word of affection thrilled Beenah through and through. "I shall send thee a little money; then as soon as I can see my way dear I shall send for thee and thou shalt come out to me and we will live happily together and our children shall live happily here." But Beenah burst into fresh tears. "Woe! Woe!" she sobbed. "How wilt thou, an old man, face the sea and the strange faces all alone? See how sorely thou art racked with rheumatism. How canst thou go glaziering? Thou liest often groaning all the night. How shalt thou carry the heavy crate on thy shoulders?" "God will give me strength to do what is right." The tears were plain enough in his voice now and would not be denied. His words forced themselves out in a husky wheeze. Beenah threw her arms round his neck. "No! No!" she cried hysterically. "Thou shalt not go! Thou shalt not leave me!" "I must go," his parched lips articulated. He could not see that the snow of her hair had drifted into her eyes and was scarce whiter than her cheeks. His spectacles were a blur of mist. "No, no," she moaned incoherently. "I shall die soon. God is merciful. Wait a little, wait a little. He will kill us both soon. My poor lamb, my poor Daniel! Thou shalt not leave me." The old man unlaced her arms from his neck. "I must. I have heard God's word in the silence." "Then I will go with thee. Wherever thou goest I will go." "No, no; thou shall not face the first hardships, I will front them alone; I am strong, I am a man."