Nehemiah stared at him. 'God's messenger!' was all he could gasp. Then the tall melancholy man raised his eyes to heaven, and uttered a Hebrew voluntary in which references to the ram whose horns were caught in the thicket to save Isaac's life were distinctly audible. Barstein waited patiently till the pious lips were at rest. 'But what business do you think you----?' he began. 'Shall I presume dictation to the angel?' asked Nehemiah with wet shining eyes. 'I am thinking that perhaps we might find something in which your children could help you. How old is the eldest?' 'I will ask my wife. Salome!' he cried. The dismal creature trotted in. 'How old is Moshele?' he asked. 'And don't you remember he was twelve last Tabernacles?' Nehemiah threw up his long arms. 'Merciful Heaven! He must soon begin to learn his _Parshah_ (confirmation portion). What will it be? Where is my _Chumash_ (Pentateuch)?' Mrs. Silvermann drew it down from the row of ragged books, and Nehemiah, fluttering the pages and bending over the rushlight, became lost to the problem of his future. Barstein addressed himself to the wife. 'What business do you think your husband could set up here?' 'Is he not a dentist?' she inquired in reply. Barstein turned to the busy peering flutterer. 'Would you like to be a dentist again?' 'Ah, but how shall I find achers?' 'You put up a sign,' said Barstein. 'One of those cases of teeth. I daresay the landlady will permit you to put it up by the front door, especially if you take an extra room. I will buy you the instruments, furnish the room attractively. You will put in your newspapers--why, people will be glad to come as to a reading-room!' he added smiling. Nehemiah addressed his wife. 'Did I not say he was a genteel archangel?' he cried ecstatically. IV Barstein was sitting outside a cafe in Rome sipping vermouth with Rozenoffski, the Russo-Jewish pianist, and Schneemann the Galician-Jewish painter, when he next heard from Nehemiah. He was anxiously expecting an important letter, which he had instructed his studio-assistant to bring to him instantly. So when the man appeared, he seized with avidity upon the envelope in his hand. But the scrawling superscription at once dispelled his hope, and recalled the forgotten _Luftmensch_. He threw the letter impatiently on the table. 'Oh, you may read it,' his friends protested, misunderstanding. 'I can guess what it is,' he said grumpily. Here, in this classical atmosphere, in this southern sunshine, he felt out of sympathy with the gaunt godly Nehemiah, who had doubtless lapsed again into his truly troublesome tribulations. Not a penny more for the ne'er-do-well! Let his Providence look after him! 'Is she beautiful?' quizzed Schneemann. Barstein roared with laughter. His irate mood was broken up. Nehemiah as a petticoated romance was too tickling. 'You shall read the letter,' he said.