Mendel’s astonishment increased to a degree that was absolutely comical. Here was an utterly inexplicable case. It was not that the scissors-grinder’s physiognomy did not contain a feature that suggested the Semite—that was common enough, especially among Russian Jews; but what might be called the psychology of the case was utterly baffling to Mendel. He had often met Jews that were well educated and spoke a number of languages with fluency, but in all his experience he had never come across one who had not at least some, however slight, acquaintance with the Jewish mother tongues, Yiddish or Hebrew. He had frequently come in contact with Jews, well and gently reared in their native lands, who had been forced by adverse circumstances to earn their bread by humble labor in America; but they had invariably found employment in some one of the so-called “Jewish” branches of industry, tailoring, cloak-making, cigar-packing, or the like, which open at least the door to a future as an independent manufacturer or merchant. But something so plebeian and hopeless as scissors-grinding, and embraced, too, by a man of evident refinement—why, that was utterly anomalous, unheard of! He gazed at the scissors-grinder without uttering a word, but with eyes which told unmistakably their tale of amazement. “You are surprised,” said the latter, “I suppose, because I, though a Jew, do not speak Yiddish, and because I found nothing better to do than to sharpen scissors and knives. Let me tell you my story and you will wonder no longer. I can recollect very little of my earliest childhood. My mother must have died, I think, when I was hardly more than an infant, for all I can recollect of her is a picture, very dim and faint, of a sweet, motherly face bending over me and of a tender, loving voice calling me darling and dove. My father, too, must have left this earth when I was only about four or five years of age. My memories of him, too, are few and indistinct. I can recall that I was a very small child in charge of an old, cross-tempered woman, a Jewess, I think, who treated me with a strange alternation of cruelty and kindness. My father used to visit me at rare intervals in this place, and bring me sweetmeats and little presents, and I can remember that on these occasions he was always dressed in a brilliant uniform, which filled my childish heart with admiration and awe. My most distinct recollection concerning my father is of the circumstances attending his death. He was brought to the house one day with blood-stained bandages around his head and breast and with face ghastly pale. They laid him upon a couch, and for several days physicians came to treat him, and men dressed in even brighter and finer uniforms than his came to visit him, and some of them chucked me under the chin and called me a fine little fellow. Then one day he called me to his bedside and said to me, in such a faint voice that I had to put my ear to his mouth in order to catch his words: