And so the years went by, over-brooded by this shadow of living death. The only gleam of happiness came when Miriam was wooed and led under the canopy by the President of the congregation, who sold haberdashery. True, he spoke English well and dressed like a clerk, but in these degenerate days one must be thankful to get a son-in-law who shuts his shop on the Sabbath. One evening, some ten years after Isaac's disappearance, Miriam sat reading the weekly paper--which alone connected her with the world and the fulness thereof--when she gave a sudden cry. "What is it?" said the haberdasher. "Nothing--I thought--" And she stared again at the rough cut of a head embedded in the reading matter. But no, it could not be! "Mr. Ethelred P. Wyndhurst, whose versatile talents have brought him such social popularity, is rumoured to have budded out in a new direction. He is said to be writing a comedy for Mrs. Donald O'Neill, who, it will be remembered, sat to him recently for the portrait now on view at the Azure Art Club. The dashing _comédienne_ will, it is stated, produce the play in the autumn season. Mr. Wyndhurst's smart sayings have often passed from mouth to mouth, but it remains to be seen whether he can make them come naturally from the mouths of his characters." What had these far-away splendours to do with Isaac Levinsky? With Isaac and his heathen female across the Atlantic? And yet--and yet Ethelred P. Wyndhurst _was_ like Isaac--that characteristic curve of the nose, those thick eyebrows! And perhaps Isaac _had_ worked himself up into a portrait-painter. Why not? Did not his old sketch of herself give distinction to her parlour? Her heart swelled proudly at the idea. But no! more probably the face in print was roughly drawn--was only accidentally like her brother. She sighed and dropped the paper.