"Forgive me, Mr. Benas," he answered, his pale face flushing, "it was no hidden allusion, but a plain reference to the example of your family, all the members of which, though living a modern life, and having discarded religious tradition, yet are preparing to celebrate a festival according to the old Jewish custom. What is bringing them together, however, is not their faith, not their customs, but one of their number, who has attained the age of a patriarch,--an old man whom they wish to honor, whom they regard with devotion and affection. This old sage will be ninety years old, and these sentiments of the occasion are purely personal, concerning a single individual. It is not faith, only filial reverence. How long will Israel continue to have patriarchs? How long will honor be brought to them? And if this bond is broken, and the historical sentiment does not grow strong in Israel to take its place, what then? There are many who say, Our mission fulfilled, we dare not complain, if we, the small minority, dissolve as an independent influence. One cannot oppose such a view; there is much to justify it, and it contains much truth. But it is a sad truth, and I should not like it to be my conviction; for I would not have my race to disappear. It is worthy to survive. It has great and glorious possibilities. Under the sunshine of a free development these will blossom forth and bear fine fruit and make Israel great among the nations." His speech was apparently dispassionate, and his arguments were set forth clearly and objectively. But his voice vibrated, as with suppressed grief, a bitter appeal, and inner distress. His noble, quiet countenance seemed to convey a silent plaint, but the speech of his eyes was eloquent. They expressed entreaty, enthusiasm, and hope. Mr. Benas was lost in thought, while Hugo impulsively clasped his friend's hand. The suspense and excitement that had taken hold of all was broken only when Mrs. Benas asked them to think of more material matters, and invited them to take a glass of beer or wine and a sandwich. The clever woman had waited for the right moment. They chatted yet a while of indifferent matters. Somewhat later, when Dr. Weilen found himself alone with Rita, he asked: "Who is this Dr. Rosenfeld?" "A student friend of Hugo's. Hugo brought him here, and he has become a favorite of all of us." "Of you, too, Rita?" "Yes," she said simply. Her candor pleased him. "Have you been with him much?" "He became my friend, especially during the last few months, when he gave me lessons in philosophy, and introduced me to the ideas of the great thinkers." "He loves you, Rita?" She looked at him with moist eyes, and said in a low voice: "He has never told me so." "Who could live near you and not love you? But he is carved out of the stuff of which martyrs are made." Involuntarily they both looked at Henry who was approaching with Hugo. * * * * *