Then after giving Ephraim some further information about the present price of oats, and the future prospects of the crops, with a sideshot at the chances of wool, skins, and other merchandise, he took his leave. There was great surprise in the Ghetto when the barely fifteen-year-old lad made his first start in business. Many made merry over “the great merchant,” but before the year was ended, the sharp-seeing eyes of the Ghetto saw that Ephraim had “a lucky hand.” Whatever he undertook he followed up with a calmness and tact which often baffled the restless activity of many a big dealer, with all his cuteness and trickery. Whenever Ephraim, with his pale, sad face, made his appearance at a farmstead, to negotiate for the purchase of wool, or some such matter, it seemed as though some invisible messenger had gone before him to soften the hearts of the farmers. “No one ever gets things as cheap as you do,” he was assured by many a farmer’s wife, who had been won by the unconscious eloquence of his dark eyes. No longer did people laugh at “the little merchant,” for nothing so quickly kills ridicule as success. When, two years later, his Uncle Gabriel came again to see how the children were getting on, Ephraim was enabled to repay, in hard cash, the money he had lent him. “Oho!” cried Gudule’s brother, with big staring eyes, as he clutched his legs with both hands, “how have you managed in so short a time to save so much? D’ye know that that’s a great deal of money?” “I’ve had good luck, uncle,” said Ephraim, modestly. “You’ve been…playing, perhaps?” The words fell bluntly from the rough country-man, but hardly had they been uttered, when Viola sprang from her chair, as though an adder had stung her. “Uncle,” she cried, and a small fist hovered before Gabriel’s eyes in such a threatening manner that he involuntarily closed them. But the child, whose features reminded him so strongly of his dead sister, could not make him angry. “Ephraim,” he exclaimed, in a jocund tone, warding off Viola with his hands, “you take my advice. Take this little spit-fire with you into the village one day…they may want a young she-wolf there.” Then he pocketed the money. “Well, Ephraim,” said he, “may God bless you, and grant you further luck. But you won’t blame me if I take the money,—I can do with it, and in oats, as you know, there’s some chance of good business just now. But I am glad to see that you’re so prompt at paying. Never give too much credit! That’s always my motto; trust means ruin, and eats up a man’s business, as rats devour the contents of a corn-barn.”