When the news of the marriage at Weimar was spread abroad, and the inmates of the Ghetto were loud in condemnation and curses, the old woman held her head still higher. "I knew it," she said to her servant. "But I did not dare hope He would let me see it. How my Lea will rejoice when she knows of it! for surely they will hear of it _there_?" The girl reported these words, and there were many zealots who visited the small house in the suburb, to reprove the old woman for her laxity. But when they stood by her couch they could not find it in their hearts to say anything to hurt the poor creature, who would only be with them a few days longer. But Miriam lived on. Even the doctor was surprised. She was always glad to see him, but she would not touch his prescriptions. "He will not let me die yet," she said. "I hope, in His mercy, He will grant me this short span of time." When the doctor asked what she meant, she replied, with a peculiar smile, "You will soon hear; and when it happens, I shall go to the synagogue for the last time." He did not press his inquiry, but told her Judith had requested him to look after her "benefactress." "Nonsense!" cried the old woman. "She saved my life; and what I said to you about the little bird that wished to fly away, that is nonsense, too. Judith will not do that now. She must see that God has chosen her to demonstrate his will to poor, blind humanity, and this knowledge is a thread that will not be easily severed." The doctor listened with emotion. How many great intellects would have raised themselves to such an ideal height of humanity as this simple Jewess had through her own misery? A few days passed, and then he discovered for what Miriam had been waiting. When the news came of the imperial decision and the public reception, Miriam sent for him for the first time since her illness. "Forgive me, doctor; but I should like to share my thankfulness for God's goodness and greatness with one person at least." The next Sabbath she dressed herself in her best, and, leaning on the arm of her servant, dragged herself to the synagogue. Many times she thought she would have fallen by the way, but she managed to reach the house of God. The people gazed at her in surprise. For years she had crept in shyly and humbly, and taken her seat in the most retired corner in the women's gallery. Now she cried, imperiously, "Make room! Make room for the mother of Lea!" when some one stood in her way; and although people thought it wrong, they did it, moved by the shining eyes and pale, haggard face. "She is mad," whispered some. "She is dying," said others; and they let her alone. Like a victor she moved in the midst of the worshippers; like a victor she returned to her home. "This has been my last walk," she said. "I shall wear this dress but once more."