"Well," said Reb Monash, when the carrot and potato dessert had been cleared away, "I go to sleep. One will see thee in the afternoon _shool_, Mottele, for _minchah_, eh?" "God being so good, Reb Monash!" "And forget thou not, Feivel! Not a foot into the street or thou wilt see then!" "But Monash," broke in Mrs. Massel, "see how it is a fine day! Can't he just go out and get some air in the street?" "So thou must take his part, Chayah, _nu_? It will not harm him to go without air. The Torah if he will imbibe will do him more good!" "_A guten Shabbos!_" said Mottele quietly as he slid through the door, "A good Sabbath!" Philip looked towards him in a passion of dumb hate. Mottele halted for the fraction of a moment with a trace of virtuous aloofness and a slightly lifted head. There followed a quick flash of vivid red thrust through his teeth, and the door closed softly behind him. "I'll show him! I'll show him! I'll show him!" the words pealed through Philip's head. "The devil! I'll give it him! Oh, s'elp me if I don't!" "To thy _chumish_ then!" said Reb Monash as he climbed the stairs. Philip sat down on a dusty form in the deserted _chayder_. He turned to a chapter in Genesis and started mumbling aloud. He mumbled on to the end. He repeated the portion again, having already ascertained that his knowledge of it was as thorough as his knowledge of anything could be. He repeated it stupidly a third and a fourth time. He knew that his father would be sleeping for an hour--no more, no less. Was he to go on mumbling and mumbling for a hot solid hour? Oh, what did it all mean, this soupy stuff, what sense had it, what poetry? He remembered with a qualm of longing a line or two Harry had found somewhere: _O Brignall banks are wild and fair And Greta woods are green...._