It had gotten late. I had another professional visit to pay, and I took leave of my old friend. I am looking forward eagerly to his future revelations. As I crossed the Ring past the shops, I suddenly saw, in my mind's eye, an industrious man, humbled by his lot, standing behind the counter, and before the door a handsome woman. And I murmured to myself: "Madame Eichelkatz, _nee_ Boehm." OCTOBER 23. Late this afternoon I hunted up my old friend in the expectation that he would continue the story of his life. Mention had been made of his son, though only _en passant_, and I cherished the secret hope that Simon Eichelkatz would return to him now that he had once begun to pour out his heart to me. But to-day he didn't say anything bearing on what had gone before. When I entered, I found him in a gay mood; and before I crossed the threshold he called out to me: "It occurred to me to-day that I wanted some time or other to tell you a _Maaseh_, which is half funny, half sad." And he only recounted anecdotes. Not one word about the events in his life--only the story of the great dearth and famine. Simon Eichelkatz was right; it is a tragi-comic history. "It was a year of famine after the war of '59; sickness everywhere; bad harvests, bad business; the potatoes rotting in the ground on account of heavy rains and floods. Herr Kreisphysikus, to understand the misery of the people thoroughly, you must live through such a year here. "All over the mining district typhus, for which the stupid workmen and peasants thought there was only one remedy, the whisky flask. The women and children died miserably on their foul, ill-smelling straw heaps, the men in the ditches. Herr Kreisphysikus, happily it is different now; conditions have improved, it cannot be denied, since forty years ago. Any one might be satisfied to have the difference expressed in money added to his fortune. On that account it's silly always to talk of the good old times. The world's gotten much better, much better. That's what this old man tells you. The winter was terrible that year. To be sure, the typhus grew less severe when the cold set in; but the poor people suffered from the cold instead. Every day you found bodies frozen to death in the ditches by the roadside. Of course they were usually drunkards; nevertheless they were human beings, and such occurrences aroused horror among us. The members of families gathered closer together, they doubly realized the comfort of a heated room and the blessing of a well-ordered existence. Every sign of well-being was regarded with heightened interest; and one day the greatest excitement was caused by the appearance of a new winter coat on the back of the wife of the vice-president. She wore it to Shul for the first time on _Sukkoth_. Frau Wilhelm Weinberger was the wife of a well-to-do man who had brought her the garment from the Leipsic Fair. I can see it now, as though it were yesterday it happened. And you may be sure the other men