That was six years ago--six hard, weary years. They had worked together, he at his push-cart, Sarah for the sweater, earning a few cents finishing "pants" when she could. Little Judah did his share, pulling thread, until his sister came and he had to mind her. Together they had kept a roof overhead, and less and less to eat, till Judah had to give up his cart. Between the fierce competition and the police blackmail it would no longer keep body and soul together for its owner. A painter in the next house was in need of a hand, and Judah apprenticed himself to him for a dollar a day. If he could hold out a year or two, he might earn journeyman's wages and have steady work. The boss saw that he had an eye for the business. But, though Judah's eye was good, he lacked the "strong stomach" which is even more important to a painter. He had starved so long that the smell of the paint made him sick and he could not work fast enough. So the boss discharged him. "The sheeny was no good," was all the character he gave him. It was then the twins came. There was not a penny in the house, and the rent money was long in arrears. Judah went out and asked for work. He sought no alms; he begged merely for a chance to earn a living at any price, any wages. Nobody wanted him, as was right and proper, no doubt. To underbid the living wage is even a worse sin against society than to "debase its standard of living," we are told by those who should know. Judah Kapelowitz was only an ignorant Jew, pleading for work that he might earn bread for his starving babies. He knew nothing of standards, but he would have sold his soul for a loaf of bread that day. He found no one to pay the price, and he came home hungry as he had gone out. In the afternoon the landlord called for the rent. Another tiny wail came from the old baby carriage in which the twins slept, and the mother turned her head from the twilight street where the lights were beginning to come out. Judah rose heavily from his seat. "I go get money," he said, slowly. "I work for Mr. Springer two days. He will give me money." And he went out. Mr. Springer was the boss painter. He did not give Judah his wages. He had not earned them, he said, and showed him the door. The man pleaded hotly, despairingly. They were hungry, the little kids and his wife. Only fifty cents of the two dollars--fifty cents! The painter put him out, and when he would not go, kicked him. "Look out for that Jew, John," he said, putting up the shutters. "We shall have him setting off a bomb on us next. They turn Anarchist when they get desperate." Mr. Springer was, it will be perceived, a man of discernment. Judah Kapelowitz lay down beside his wife at night without a word of complaint. "To-morrow," he said, "I do it." [Illustration: "HE TIED HIS FEET TOGETHER WITH THE PRAYER SHAWL, AND LOOKED ONCE UPON THE RISING SUN."]