"What would you say, little boy?" asked Pethachiah, as if he did not know that I had my eyes on the prayer-book, and had had it in my hands seventeen times, each time asking the price of it. "Nothing," I replied. "Just so!" And I left him, so as not to be tempted. "Ah, mother, you should see the fine thing Pethachiah the pedlar has." "What sort of a thing?" asked my mother. "A little prayer-book. If I had such a prayer-book, I would--I don't know myself what I would do." "Haven't you got a prayer-book? And where is your father's prayer-book?" "You can't compare them. This is an ornament, and my book is only a book." "An ornament?" repeated my mother. "Are there then more prayers in an ornamental book, or do the prayers sound better?" Well, how can you explain an ornament to your mother--a really fine book with red covers, and blue edges, and a green back? "Come," said my mother to me, one evening, taking me by the hand. "Come with me to the synagogue. Tomorrow is the anniversary of your father's death. We will bring candles to be lit for him, and at the same time we will see what sort of a prayer-book it is that Pethachiah has." I knew beforehand that on the anniversary of the death of my father, I could get from my mother anything I asked for, even to the little plate from heaven, as the saying is. And my heart beat with joy. When we got to the synagogue, we found Pethachiah with his pack still unopened. You must know Pethachiah was a man who never hurried. He knew very well he was the only man at the fair. His customers would never leave him. Before he opened his pack and spread out his goods, it took a year. I trembled, I shook. I could hardly stand on my feet. And he did not care. It was as if we were not talking to him at all. "Let me see what sort of a prayer-book it is you have," said my mother. Pethachiah had plenty of time. The river was not on fire. Slowly, without haste, he opened his pack, and spread out his wares--big Bibles, little prayer-books for men, and for women, big Psalm books and little, and books for all possible occasions, without an end. Then there were books of tales from the "_Talmud_," tales of the "_Bal-shem-tov_," books of sermons, and books of devotion. I imagined he would never run short. He was a well, a fountain. At last he came to the little books, and handed out the one I wanted. "Is this all?" asked my mother. "Such a little one." "This little one is dearer than a big one," answered Pethachiah. "And how much do you want for the little squirrel?--God forgive me for calling it by that name." "You call a prayer-book a squirrel?" asked Pethachiah. He took the book slowly out of her hand; and my heart was torn. "Well, say. How much is it?" asked my mother. But Pethachiah had plenty of time. He answered her in a sing-song: "How much is the little prayer-book? It will cost you--it will cost you--I am afraid it is not for your purse."