'Who speaks of passing off? He could say I was his sister, as Abraham our Father said of Sarah. But that was a sin in the sight of Heaven, and therefore as our sages explain----' 'It is simpler to be married,' Yossel interrupted. 'Married!' echoed the artist angrily. 'The witnesses are coming to my lodging this afternoon,' Yossel continued calmly. 'Dovidel and Yitzkoly from the _Beth Hamedrash_.' 'They think they are only coming to a farewell glass of brandy,' chuckled the grandmother. 'But they will find themselves at a secret wedding.' 'And to-morrow we shall depart publicly for Trieste,' Yossel wound up calmly. 'But this is too absurd!' the artist broke in. 'I forbid this marriage!' A violent expression of amazement overspread the ancient dame's face, and the tone of the far-away years came into her voice. 'Silence, Vroomkely, or I'll smack your face. Do you forget you are talking to your grandmother?' 'I think Mr. Mandelstein forgets it,' the artist retorted, turning upon the heroic hunchback. 'Do you mean to say you are going to marry my grandmother?' 'And why not?' asked Yossel. 'Is there a greater lover of God in all Galicia?' 'Hush, Yossel, I am a great sinner.' But her old face was radiant. She turned to her grandson. 'Don't be angry with Yossel--all the fault is mine. He did not ask me to go with him to Palestine; it was I that asked _him_.' 'Do you mean that you asked him to marry you?' 'It is the same thing. There is no other way. How different would it have been had there been any other woman here who wanted to die in Palestine! But the women nowadays have no fear of Heaven; they wear their hair unshorn--they----' 'Yes, yes. So you asked Yossel to marry you.' 'Asked? Prayed, as one prays upon Atonement Day. For two years I prayed to him, but he always refused.' 'Then why----?' began the artist. 'Yossel is so proud. It is his only sin.' 'Oh, Yenta!' protested Yossel flushing, 'I am a very sinful man.' 'Yes, but your sin is all in a lump,' the _Bube_ replied. 'Your iniquity is like your ugliness--some people have it scattered all over, but you have it all heaped up. And the heap is called pride.' 'Never mind his pride,' put in the artist impatiently. 'Why did he not go on refusing you?'