His face grew redder every moment; he had drunk a third and a fourth glass, and there was nothing but a mere drain left in the bottle. Already his utterance was thick and incoherent, and his eyes were fast assuming that glassy brightness that is usually the forerunner of helpless intoxication. It was a sight Ephraim could not bear to see. Impelled by that natural, almost holy shame which prompted the son of Noah to cover the nakedness of his father, he motioned to his sister to leave. Then HE, too, softly walked out of the room. Outside, in the corridor, the brother and sister fell into each other’s arms. Both wept bitterly: for a long time neither of them could find words in which to express the grief which filled their souls. At length Viola, her head resting upon Ephraim’s shoulder, whispered: “Ephraim, what do you think of him?” “He is ill, I think…” said Ephraim, in a voice choked with sobs. “What, you call THAT illness, Ephraim?” Viola cried; “if that’s illness, then a wild beast is ill too.” “Viola, for Heaven’s sake, be quiet: he’s our own father after all!” “Ephraim!” said the girl, with a violent outburst of emotion, as she again threw herself into her brother’s arms… “just think if mother had lived to see this!” “Don’t, don’t, Viola, my sweet!” Ephraim exclaimed, sobbing convulsively. “Ephraim!” the girl cried, shaking her head in wild despair, “I don’t believe in the Sechûs! When we live to see all this, and our hearts do not break, we lose faith in everything…Ephraim, what is to become of us?” “Hush, dear Viola, hush, you don’t know what you are saying,” replied Ephraim, “I believe in it, because mother herself told us…you must believe in it too.” But Viola again shook her head. “I don’t believe in it any longer,” she moaned, “I can’t.” Noiselessly, Ephraim walked toward the door of the front room; he placed his ear against the keyhole, and listened. Within all was silent. A fresh terror seized him. Why was no sound to be heard?…He opened the door cautiously lest it should creak. There sat his father asleep in the arm-chair, his head bent on his bosom, his arms hanging limp by his side. “Hush, Viola,” he whispered, closing the door as cautiously as he had opened it, “he is asleep. …I think it will do him good. Be careful that you make no noise.”