He fixed me with his hard grey eyes that had a look of pain in them, and said in a tone which had neither reverence nor irony in it, nor indeed any feeling at all: "The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the name of the Lord. I buried my poor wife last Thursday". There was an awkward silence. "I'm very sorry to hear that," I said, "very sorry." "Yes" he said, "The righteous flourish like the bay-tree: they tell us that: you see it there on the tombstone." He put his head on one side and stared at it. "Vell," he said--and I noticed for the first time the thick Jewish speech--"vell, its there, so I suppose its true, ain't it? But its difficult to see, y' know always. I've often said the only thing we can do is to lead a clean life here, a pure life, and we'll get our reward. But mine seems to be pretty long in coming," he sighed, "yes pretty long, I tell you. I had hard times before: we both of us did, my poor wife and I. And then at last I got this job; I thought she was going to have a happy peaceful life at last. Nothing very grand in pay, but enough to keep us and the two boys. And a nice enough house for her. And then as soon as we come here she takes ill and dies, poor soul." He wiped his eyes. "I don't know why I should call her poor soul. She's at rest any way. And she made me the best, the very best wife a man could have." He put his hands well down in the pockets of his overcoat, drew his arms to his sides so that he looked like a great black bird folding its wings round itself, and rocked himself backwards and forwards, first on his toes and then on his heels, looking up at me sideways with wrinkled forehead. "Vell," he said, "EI've got my two boys. I wish you could see 'em. Fine young fellows. One earning 30/- a week, though he's only eighteen. He'll do well, I tell you; all right up here." He tapped his forehead. "And the other, though I'm his father I'm not afraid to tell anyone, he's a genius--he draws, draws beautiful, and paints too, real artistic pictures. Ah they're good lads--a bit wild, the elder one--" he lowered his voice and showed his teeth in a grin, "he's got an eye for the petticoats, but then boys will be boys. I daresay I was the same myself." I didn't altogether like the grin, with my wife standing there, so I gave him a shilling and went. I've seen him once more: the day came round again, and I took my boy this time, dear little chap, to see his mother's grave. And Fanny came too,--ah, she's a mother to those motherless children.