"Then your steward has robbed me!" exclaimed the _Schnorrer_ excitedly. "You let him make up the packets, and he has stolen my money--the thief, the transgressor, thrice-cursed who robs the poor." "You don't understand," interrupted the magnate meekly. "I made up the packets myself." "Then, why do you say you did not know what was in them? Go, you mock my misery!" "Nay, hear me out!" urged Grobstock desperately. "In some I placed gold, in the greater number silver, in a few copper, in one alone--nothing. That is the one you have drawn. It is your misfortune." "_My_ misfortune!" echoed the _Schnorrer_ scornfully. "It is _your_ misfortune--I did not even draw it. The Holy One, blessed be He, has punished you for your heartless jesting with the poor--making a sport for yourself of their misfortunes, even as the Philistines sported with Samson. The good deed you might have put to your account by a gratuity to me, God has taken from you. He has declared you unworthy of achieving righteousness through me. Go your way, murderer!" "Murderer!" repeated the philanthropist, bewildered by this harsh view of his action. "Yes, murderer! Stands it not in the Talmud that he who shames another is as one who spills his blood? And have you not put me to shame--if anyone had witnessed your almsgiving, would he not have laughed in my beard?" The pillar of the Synagogue felt as if his paunch were shrinking. "But the others--" he murmured deprecatingly. "I have not shed their blood--have I not given freely of my hard-earned gold?" "For your own diversion," retorted the _Schnorrer_ implacably. "But what says the Midrash? There is a wheel rolling in the world--not he who is rich to-day is rich to-morrow, but this one He brings up, and this one He brings down, as is said in the seventy-fifth Psalm. Therefore, lift not up your horn on high, nor speak with a stiff neck." He towered above the unhappy capitalist, like an ancient prophet denouncing a swollen monarch. The poor man put his hand involuntarily to his high collar as if to explain away his apparent arrogance, but in reality because he was not breathing easily under the _Schnorrer's_ attack. "You are an uncharitable man," he panted hotly, driven to a line of defence he had not anticipated. "I did it not from wantonness, but from faith in Heaven. I know well that God sits turning a wheel--therefore I did not presume to turn it myself. Did I not let Providence select who should have the silver and who the gold, who the copper and who the emptiness? Besides, God alone knows who really needs my assistance--I have made Him my almoner; I have cast my burden on the Lord."