Then the old man broke down, hid his face in the Talmud, and wept. I think I comforted him; at least I tried to, and as I left him he breathed a prayer for his venturesome son who had deserted the Talmud, and the red pots and green bowls; who certainly was no longer in peril of poverty, but in peril of his soul. One more year passed and in visiting this town, I immediately turned my steps towards the "Amerikansky Schtore." I found its doors closed, and from within came sounds of bitter wailing and lamentation. I did not need to be told that the death angel had made his sorrow-bringing visitation, and my heart grew tender as I thought of the dear old man who would no more bend over the Talmud and mourn the departure of the good old times. A Jewish house of mourning is sadder than can be described. Its atmosphere chills one to the bone, such an air of resigned hopelessness pervades everything. All is sackcloth and ashes; no sign of hope is visible and but little of it lies in the hearts of the mourners. Entering the room, where the family sat upon the ground lamenting its dead, how great was my amazement to find that Uncle Isaac, instead of being the one mourned for, was the centre of the group of mourners; while the one missing was Moschele, the pillar of the household, the founder of the "Amerikansky Schtore." The old man stretched out both hands to me in mute welcome, and when I sat down beside him he told me the sad story which I shall try to give in his own words. "Moschele is dead! What a blow! What a blow! I expected something terrible! I knew this couldn't go on! He grew bolder and bolder, and richer and richer. Have you seen the new store? In all Hungary there is nothing like it. He was a genius; even his enemies admit that." Then the old man fell into silence. "But tell me how he died." "He went out from among us in the morning as strong and straight as an oak, and he was brought home felled to the ground as if struck by lightning. God's ways are mysterious; but oh, my son, my strong, noble son! If only he had not departed from the ways of his fathers I might still have him. "He went to the railroad; they had switched his car of goods where he could not get it--he was buying goods by the carload; nothing like this has ever been heard of before--and he wanted his car; so he helped the men to move it. Moschele wasn't afraid of anything. The men pushed and Moschele fell over a switch and the car went over him." Here a paroxysm of grief silenced the old man and he swayed to and fro, weeping piteously. * * * * * And again I passed through the town, and this time I went to the God's acre with Uncle Isaac, to visit the grave of his son. In weird confusion lay the gray and moss-grown stones. No care is bestowed upon the graves or upon the memorials of the departed; for the body is nothing, the spirit is everything and that is with God.