"He is my god-child," said the man, affectionately stroking his nephew's head. "I take great pride in him. It has pleased the Lord to deny me children, and the deprivation is hard to bear. Sister, let me take Mendel with me. I am rich and can give him all he can desire. He shall study Talmud and become a great and famous rabbi, of whom all the world will one day speak in praise. You have still another boy, while my home is dreary for want of a child's presence. What say you?" But the mother had, long before the conclusion of this appeal, clasped the boy to her bosom, while the tears of love forced themselves through her lashes at the bare suggestion of parting from her first-born. "God forbid," she cried, "that he should ever leave me; my precious boy." And she embraced him again and again. Meanwhile, the husband had crossed the room to where a little fellow, scarcely six years of age, lay upon a sofa. "Well, Jacob, my boy; how do you feel?" he asked, gently. "A little better, father," murmured the child. "My arm and ear still pain me, but not so much as yesterday." The boy sat up and attempted to smile, but sank back with a groan. "Poor child, poor child," said the father, soothingly, "Have patience. In a few days you will be about again." "Is uncle here? I want to see uncle," cried the boy. Hirsch Bensef obeyed the call, and, going to the sufferer, kissed his burning brow. "Why, Jacob; how is this?" he said. "I did not know that you were sick. What is the trouble, my lad?" The child turned his face to the wall and shuddered. Reb Mordecai shook his head mournfully, while a tear he sought to repress ran down his furrowed cheek. "It is the old story," he said. "Prejudice and fanaticism, hatred and ignorance." And while the Sabbath meal waited, the father told his tale in a simple, unaffected manner, and the uncle listened with clenched hands and threatening glances. The day following the events in the _kretschma_, little Jacob had wandered, in company with some Christian playmates, through the village, and seeing the door of a barn wide open, his childish curiosity got the better of his discretion, and he peeped in. A brindled cow, with a pretty calf scarcely three days old, attracted his attention, and for some minutes he gazed upon the pair in silent ecstasy. Then, knowing that he was on forbidden ground, he retraced his steps and endeavored to reach the lane where he had left his companions. The master of the farm, however, having witnessed the intrusion from a neighboring window, did not lose the opportunity to vent his anger against the whole tribe of inquisitive Jews. On the following day the cow ran dry. In vain did the calf seek nourishment at the maternal breast; there was nothing to satisfy its cravings. The farmer, slow as he was in matters of general importance, was far from slow in tracing the melancholy occurrence to its supposed source.