The two children, however, had early given evidence of a marked difference in disposition. Ephraim’s nature was one of an almost feminine gentleness, whilst Viola was strong-willed and proudly reserved. “Mother,” she said one day, “do you think he will continue to play much longer?” “Viola, how can you talk like that?” Ephraim cried, greatly disturbed. Thereupon Viola impetuously flung her arms round her mother’s neck, and for some moments she clung to her with all the strength of her passionate nature. It was as though in that wild embrace she would fain pour forth the long pent-up sorrows of her blighted childhood. “Mother!” she cried, “you are so good to him. Never, never shall he have such kindness from me!” “Ephraim,” said Gudule, “speak to your sister. In her sinful anger, Viola would revenge herself upon her own father. Does it so beseem a Jewish child?” “Why does he treat you so cruelly, then?” Viola almost hissed the words. Soon after fell the final crushing blow. Ascher had been away from home for some weeks, when one day Gudule received a letter, dated a prison in the neighborhood of Vienna. In words of genuine sympathy the writer explained that Ascher had been unfortunate enough to forge the signature to a bill. She would not see him again for the next five years. God comfort her! The letter was signed: “A fellow-sufferer with your husband.” As it had been with her old father, after he had bidden her a last farewell, so it was now with Gudule. From that moment her days were numbered, and although not a murmur escaped her lips, hour by hour she wasted away. One Friday evening, shortly after the seven-branched Sabbath lamp had been lit, Gudule, seated in her arm-chair, out of which she had not moved all day, called the two children to her. A bright smile hovered around her lips, an unwonted fire burned in her still beautiful eyes, her bosom heaved … in the eyes of her children she seemed strangely changed. “Children,” said she, “come and stand by me. Ephraim, you stand here on my right, and you, dear Viola, on my left. I would like to tell you a little story, such as they tell little children to soothe them to sleep. Shall I?” “Mother!” they both cried, as they bent towards her. “You must not interrupt me, children,” she observed, still with that strange smile on her lips, “but leave me to tell my little story in my own way. “Listen, children,” she resumed, after a brief pause. “Every human being—be he ever so wicked—if he have done but a single good deed on earth, will, when he arrives above, in the seventh heaven, get his Sechûs, that is to say, the memory of the good he has done here below will be remembered and rewarded bountifully by the Almighty.” Gudule ceased speaking. Suddenly a change came over her features: her breath came and went in labored gasps; but her brown eyes still gleamed brightly.