“Good-by, then,” he stammered. “God be good to thee!” He moved away. “Herzel!” She had uncovered her face with a despairing cry. He slouched back toward her, perturbed, dreading she would retract. “Do not send it--bring it thyself. Let me take it from thy hand.” A lump rose in his throat. “I will bring it,” he said, brokenly. The long days of pain grew longer; the summer was coming, harbingered by sunny days, that flooded the wards with golden mockery. The evening Herzel brought the Gett, Sarah could have read every word on the parchment plainly if her eyes had not been blinded by tears. She put out her hand toward her husband, groping for the document he bore. He placed it in her burning palm. The fingers closed automatically upon it, then relaxed, and the paper fluttered to the floor. But Sarah was no longer a wife. 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 house 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 borrow it of 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 neighbors. When he was going she said: “Thou wilt come again?” “Yes, I will come again.”