“Gudule!” he said one day, when he happened to be in a particularly good humor, “why do you let the key remain in the door of that bureau where you keep so many valuables?” And again Gudule regarded him with those unfathomable eyes. “There, you’re … looking at me again!” he exclaimed with sudden vehemence. “They’re safe enough in the cupboard,” Gudule said, smiling, “why should I lock it?” “Gudule, do you mean to say …” he cried, raising his hand as for a blow. Then he fell back in his chair, and his frame was shaken with sobs. “Gudule, my heart’s love,” he cried, “I am not worthy that your eyes should rest on me. Everywhere, wherever I go, they look at me, those eyes … and that is my ruin. If business is bad, your eyes ask me, ‘Why did you mix yourself up with these things, without a thought of wife or children?’… Then I feel as if some evil spirit possessed me and tortured my soul. Oh, why can’t you look at me again as you did when you were my bride?—then you looked so happy, so lovely! At other times I think: ‘I shall yet grasp fortune with both hands … and then I can face my Gudule’s eyes again.’ But now, now … oh, don’t look at me, Gudule!” There spoke the self-reproaching voice, which sometimes burst forth unbidden from a suffering soul. As for Gudule, she already knew how to appreciate this cry of her husband’s conscience at its true value. It was not that she felt one moment’s doubt as to its sincerity, but she knew that so far as it affected the future, it was a mere cry and nothing more. The years rolled on. The children were growing up. Ephraim had entered his fifteenth year. Viola was a little pale girl of twelve. In opinion of the Ghetto they were the most extraordinary children in the world. In the midst of the harassing life to which her marriage with the gambler had brought her, Gudule so reared them that they grew to be living reflections of her own inmost being. People wondered when they beheld the strange development of “Wild” Ascher’s children. Their natures were as proud and reserved as that of their mother. They did not associate with the youth of the Ghetto; it seemed as though they were not of their kind, as though an insurmountable barrier divided them. And many a bitter sneer was hurled at Gudule’s head. “Does she imagine,” she often heard people whisper, “that because her father was a farmer her children are princes? Let her remember that her husband is but a common gambler.” How different would have been their thoughts had they known that the children were Gudule’s sole comfort. What their father had never heard from her, she poured into their youthful souls. No tear their mother shed was unobserved by them; they knew when their father had lost and when he had won; they knew, too, all the varying moods of his unhinged mind; and in this terrible school of misery they acquired an instinctive intelligence, which in the eyes of strangers seemed mere precocity.