'The rest is nothing. Mrs. Henry Goldsmith stepped in as the _dea ex machinâ_. She had no children, and she took it into her head to adopt me. Naturally I was dazzled, though anxious about my brothers and sisters. But my father looked upon it as a godsend. Without consulting me, Mrs. Goldsmith arranged that he and the other children should be shipped to America; she got him some work at a relative's in Chicago. I suppose she was afraid of having the family permanently hanging about the Terrace. At first I was grieved; but when the pain of parting was over I found myself relieved to be rid of them, especially of my father. It sounds shocking, I know, but I can confess all my vanities now, for I have learnt all is vanity. I thought Paradise was opening before me; I was educated by the best masters, and graduated at the London University. I travelled and saw the Continent, had my fill of sunshine and beauty. I have had many happy moments, realised many childish ambitions, but happiness is as far away as ever. My old school colleagues envy me; yet I do not know whether I would not go back without regret.' 'Is there anything lacking in your life, then?' he asked gently. 'No; I happen to be a nasty, discontented little thing--that is all,' she said, with a faint smile. 'Look on me as a psychological paradox, or a text for the preacher.' 'And do the Goldsmiths know of your discontent?' 'Heaven forbid! They have been so very kind to me. We get along very well together. I never discuss religion with them, only the services and the minister.' 'And your relatives?' 'Oh, they are all well and happy. Solomon has a store in Detroit. He is only nineteen, and dreadfully enterprising. Father is a pillar of a Chicago _Chevrah_. He still talks Yiddish. He has escaped learning American just as he escaped learning English. I buy him a queer old Hebrew book sometimes with my pocket-money, and he is happy. One little sister is a typewriter, and the other is just out of school and does the house-work. I suppose I shall go out and see them all some day.' 'What became of the grandmother you mentioned?' 'She had a charity funeral a year before the miracle happened. She was very weak and ill, and the charity doctor warned her that she must not fast on the day of Atonement. But she wouldn't even moisten her parched lips with a drop of cold water. And so she died, exhorting my father with her last breath to beware of Mrs. Simons (a good-hearted widow who was very kind to us) and to marry a pious Polish woman.' 'And did he?' 'No, I am still stepmotherless. Your white tie's gone wrong. It's all on one side.' 'It generally is,' said Raphael, fumbling perfunctorily at the little bow. 'Let me put it straight. There! And now you know all about me, I hope you are going to repay my confidences in kind.'