There was once a Jewish woman, the wife of a renowned Talmudic sage, and she had two sons of wondrous beauty. Little sons, yet already great hopes. Their father was gifted, yet it could easily be seen that they were still more gifted. Whoever beheld them surrendered to their charm. The sight of them brought joy to all hearts and caused warmth to surge throughout one’s being. And the mother was at a loss for thanks to God for the precious gifts that he had sent to her. When suddenly a plague assailed the town in which she dwelt and on a Sabbath day both her sons died while their father was at a House of Study, reciting the Holy Law before his fellow Jews. In order not to spoil her husband’s Sabbath when he came home, she laid her two sons out in a distant room, covering them with a black shroud, and then sat down to await her husband’s coming, dressed in her Sabbath clothes and on her face a Sabbath air. And when her husband came he could not read from her bearing that a thunderbolt had struck their home, destroying its most treasured possessions. Accustomed to see his children at the Sabbath table, he asked “Where are our sons?” The first time she told him a lie and her voice was calm and reassuring: “Soldiers marched through the town with drums and music, and the children were anxious to see the gay parade. They begged so prettily I could not say them nay, and let them go together with the old servant.” Her husband eyed her in astonishment. “A children’s disease is epidemic here; the angel of death lurks now in every street; and you have let our sons trail after a procession?” She lay her head against his bosom as if to win his pardon, and said, “If God so wills it, Death plucks his victims even in the greatest seclusion.” The hours of the day passed and he asked again, “Why have our little sons not yet returned?” And again she answered calmly, with reassurance, “The procession cannot be over yet; or else, they have stopped somewhere to play.” And she asked him to forgive them for having so childishly forgotten their home, and persuaded him to harbour no uneasiness. Could he not see that she was calm? But when evening had fallen and time for the closing prayer of Sabbath had come, he became once more uneasy, and exclaimed, “I do not understand you. How can you be so calm? It is already so dark, and still our sons are not here.” And again she answered serenely and soothingly: “I am at ease because I know that God is with them on all their ways.” Now he was ashamed to feel uneasiness, and recited the closing prayers. When he had finished, she turned to him quietly: