"All this took place nine years ago last summer. One Sabbath afternoon in the following autumn Esther came to my daughter and entreated her with tears to lend her a German book, or else she would die. She said that her father had taken away every one of her books, and looked after her so strictly that she couldn't herself get any to take their place. He did not, however, go so far as to prevent her visiting us. Our acquaintance was an honor to the girl, and besides that, he knew that I was a woman of principle. Well, as I said before, Esther wept and entreated in such a heart-rending manner that I was touched. So I lent her some German books that I happened to have in the house: Heine's 'Reisebilder,' Klopstock's 'Messiade,' 'Kaiser Joseph,' by Louise Muehlbach, the new 'Pitaval,' Eichendorf's poems, and the novels of Paul de Kock. She read them all, devouring them much as a hungry wolf does a lamb. She read them in the shop whenever her father's back was turned, and at night when she went to her room. The only book she didn't like was the first novel of Paul de Kock; she brought it back to me, and asked me to find her something else. But I hadn't time to do so then, so I said: 'Read it, child, read it; you'll like it when once you've fairly begun.' I was right; she liked it so much that she never offered to give back the second novel, and after the third, she wanted to finish all by that author before reading anything else. I was able to gratify her, as we have the whole of his works. She devoured the hundred and eighty volumes in the course of one winter. For, I can assure you, these Jewish girls have no moral feeling...!" The ladies all agree in regarding this statement as true. The estate-agent's wife is the only one who does not join in the chorus. For though she is very fat and rather stupid, she has a good heart. "It wasn't right," she says very distinctly and very gravely. "You have a great deal to answer for." The Frau Kasimira looks at her in silent astonishment. If she were not a very courteous woman, a woman of the world, and, above all, if it were not her own house, she would smile sarcastically and shrug her shoulders. As it is, she contents herself with saying apologetically, "Mon Dieu! she was only a Jewess!" "Only a Jewess!" repeats the chorus of ladies aloud, and also in a whisper. Many of them laugh as they say ... "only a Jewess!" "Only a Jewess!" is echoed in a grave deep voice. The games in the ante-room, are finished, and the gentlemen have rejoined the ladies unnoticed. "You have made a great mistake, madam." It is the doctor of Barnow who speaks, a tall stately man. He is a Jew by birth. He is hated because of his religion, and feared because of his power of sarcasm. His position obliges these people to receive him into their society, and he accepts their invitations because theirs is the only society to be had in the dull little country town.