life of abnegation--more truly if we give up the hope of personal happiness? Forgive me, darling, the pain I am causing you, and thus help me to bear my own. "Your friend till death, "FLORENCE." It was an hour past midnight ere the letter was finished, and when it was sealed a sense of relief at remaining in the Jewish fold stole over her, though she would scarcely acknowledge it to herself, and impatiently analyzed it away as hereditary. And despite it, if she slept on the letter, would it ever be posted? But the house was sunk in darkness. She was the only creature stirring. And yet she yearned to have the thing over, irrevocable. Perhaps she might venture out herself with her latch-key. There was a letter-box at the street corner. She lit a candle and stole out on the landing, casting a monstrous shadow which frightened her. In her over-wrought mood it almost seemed an uncanny creature grinning at her. Her mother's death-bed rose suddenly before her; her mother's voice cried: "Ah, Florrie, do not fret. I will find thee a bridegroom." Was this the bridegroom--was this the only one she would ever know? "Father! father!" she shrieked, with sudden terror. A door was thrown open; a figure shambled forth in carpet slippers--a dear, homely, reassuring figure--holding the coloured handkerchief which had helped to banish him from the drawing-room. His face was smeared; his eyelids under the pushed-up horn spectacles were red: he, too, had kept vigil. "What is it? What is it, little Schnapsie?" "Nothing. I--I--I only wanted to ask you if you would be good enough to post this letter--to-night." "Good enough? Why, I shall enjoy a breath of air." He took the letter and essayed a roguish laugh as his eye caught the superscription. "Ho! ho!" He pinched her cheek. "So we mustn't let a day pass without writing to him, eh?" She quivered under this unforeseen misconception. "No," she echoed, with added firmness, "we mustn't let a day pass." "But go to bed at once, little Schnapsie. You look quite pale. If you stay up so late writing him letters, you won't make him a beautiful bride." "No," she repeated, "I won't make him a beautiful bride." She heard the hall door close gently upon his cautious footsteps, and her eyes dimmed with divine tears as she thought of the joy that awaited his return. * * * * * III NOAH'S ARK * * * * * III NOAH'S ARK I On a summer's day toward the close of the first quarter of the nineteenth century after Christ, Peloni walked in "the good place" of the Frankfort _Judengasse_ and pondered. At times he came to a standstill and appeared to study the inscriptions on the tumbled tombstones, or the carven dragons, shields, and stars, but his black eyes burnt inward and he saw less the tragedy of Jewish death than the tragedy of Jewish life.