Beruriah lay with open eyes and gazed into the shadows of the half-lighted room. Her head was in a maze; she could not think a single definite thought. She only knew that a terrible misfortune had befallen her,—a misfortune greater far than the loss of her two sons,—a catastrophe great beyond all explanation. She could not yet conceive it; it was such as must undo her evermore,—must work the profoundest transformation in her life. And all at once she wearily arose, her eyes dilated, gazing straight ahead. Yes. Even so. Rabbi Mayer could be her husband no longer. She clenched her teeth and fortified her heart; her distended eyes still fixed their glance before her. Now she could think quite clearly. Had Rabbi Mayer himself betrayed no doubt, but simply yielded to the doubts of others, she would have felt no insult and her heart would have remained quite calm. She would have rejoiced at the strength of his faith in her. And her own strength, too, would have been a double boon. She would have twitted him upon the daring step he had taken, and told him that such a course was foolish, and would have aided him to triumph over the evil cavillers, who had dared to drag her down into the mire of their suspicions. But he alone had doubted! He alone had desired the test, to support his faith in her. He alone had dared be unassured of his Beruriah’s strength! Her own husband had not known her heart and had sullied its purity with the filth of doubt! Suppose she had not triumphed over the test? The peril had been great; the handsome Simeon, too, was very dangerous. Yet Rabbi Mayer had not feared to lose her. He had risked her in a game,—had led her to sacrifice! He could be her husband no longer! She repeated this over and over again, insistently, with raging harshness cutting it into her soul. He should have to grant her a divorce; she should remain alone. All alone,—all, all alone. A bitter grief assailed her, making her close her eyes, and a great wretchedness enfolded her. She was seized with a deep yearning for her departed children; her heart went out to them; she stretched forth her hands to them, and pressed her hands to her bosom, shaking her head; the tears came fast as she whispered fond endearments and mother-words. She saw them before her, just as they looked in the final days before their sudden death. Playful, laughing, bright. She felt their presence so plainly that she looked around for them. No. They were not there. They were dead. They lay in the distant graveyard, deep in the cold earth, encased in boards. Strewn with earth. Alone they lay there, so forsaken,—her little darlings,—and were longing perhaps for their mother, even as their mother longed for them. This thought sank deep and took root in her heart. At last she began to weep softly, convulsively: “My children need me, and I have need of them.” And when she had wept out all her tears she made a resolution. Once this was determined upon she turned to God.