Herzel was glad to hide his burning face by stooping for the fallen bill of divorcement. He was long picking it up. When his eyes met hers again, she had propped herself up in her bed. Two big round tears trickled down her cheeks, but she received the parchment calmly and thrust it into her bosom. "Let it lie there," she said stonily, "there where thy head hath lain. Blessed be the true Judge." "Thou art not angry with me, Sarah?" "Why should I be angry? She was right--I am but a dead woman. Only no one may say _Kaddish_ for me, no one may pray for the repose of my soul. I am not angry, Herzel. A wife should light the Sabbath candles, and throw in the fire the morsel of dough. But thy home was desolate, there was none to do these things. Here I have all I need. Now thou wilt be happy, too." "Thou hast been a good wife, Sarah," he murmured, touched. "Recall not the past; we are strangers now," she said, with recurrent harshness. "But I may come and see thee--sometimes." He had stirrings of remorse as the moment of final parting came. "Wouldst thou reopen my wounds?" "Farewell, then." He put out his hand timidly; she seized it and held it passionately. "Yes, yes, Herzel! Do not leave me! Come and see me here--as a friend, an acquaintance, a man I used to know. The others are thoughtless--they forget me--I shall lie here--perhaps the Angel of Death will forget me, too." Her grasp tightened till it hurt him acutely. "Yes, I will come--I will come often," he said, with a sob of physical pain. Her clasp loosened, she dropped his hand. "But not till thou art married," she said. "Be it so." "Of course thou must have a 'still wedding.' The English synagogue will not marry thee." "The Maggid will marry me." "Thou wilt show me her _Cesubah_ when thou comest next?" "Yes--I will contrive to get it from her." A week passed--he brought the marriage certificate. Outwardly she was calm. She glanced through it. "God be thanked," she said, and handed it back. They chatted of indifferent things, of the doings of the neighbours. When he was going, she said, "Thou wilt come again?" "Yes, I will come again." "Thou art so good to spend thy time on me thus. But thy wife--will she not be jealous?" He stared, bewildered by her strange, eerie moments. "Jealous of thee?" he murmured. She took it in its contemptuous sense and her white lips twitched. But she only said, "Is she aware thou hast come here?" He shrugged his shoulders. "Do I know? I have not told her." "Tell her." "As thou wishest." There was a pause. Presently the woman spoke. "Wilt thou not bring her to see me? Then she will know that thou hast no love left for me--" He flinched as at a stab. After a painful moment he said: "Art thou in earnest?" "I am no marriage-jester. Bring her to me--will she not come to see an invalid? It is a _mitzvah_ (good deed) to visit the sick. It will wipe out her trespass." "She shall come."