And thus season follows season, and year follows year. Oft, the soul becomes moody and sullen. Cities turn into graveyards, the graveyards into fields of pasture; forests are felled. The pebbles of the brook become sand; rivers have changed their courses; myriads of stars have fallen and myriads of souls have flown upward; but the gracious Lord has never thought of her; neither has she found aught that was beautiful or good. And she thinks within herself: “How poor the whole world is. Its people--how mediocre; their souls--how dark and obscure.... How can aught good be found here? Alas! I must rove about--an exile, forever.” But suddenly a red flame bursts before her. Out of the dark and gloomy night a red flame leaps forth. She stares about her.... ’Tis from an upper window of a house that the flame has shot forth. Robbers are attacking a wealthy man. Masks are on their faces. One holds a burning torch in his hands; another holds a blazing knife at the man’s breast and repeats his threat again and again: “Jew, make but the slightest motion and you are dead. The knife will most assuredly pass through your back, then.” The others are all busy, opening chests and drawers. The man looks serenely about him, although the knife is at his breast. The brows above his lucid eyes do not quiver. Not a hair of that gray beard that reaches to the waist moves. All of it seems to be something that is not his concern. “The Lord hath given, the Lord taketh away,” he muses, and his pale lips mutter: “Blessed be the name of the Lord.” “One is not born thus and one may not carry it all to his grave.” He views them calmly when they are about to clear the last drawer of the last bureau and watches, in absolute silence, the pillage of the gold and the silver, the jewelry and other precious things! Perhaps he is renouncing it all! But all at once--as the robbers are about to lay hold upon the last hidden treasure--a little sack, hidden in the most secret nook of all--he forgets himself--trembles all over, his eyes are bloodshot, and he stretches his right hand forward, to the weapon. He would, as it seems, cry out! “Touch it not!” But the cry is unuttered. A red, vaporous stream of blood shoots forth, the knife has done its work.... It is the heart’s blood that besprinkles the little sack. He falls to the ground. The robbers tear the little sack open in a hurry. That will be the best--the most precious gain of all! But what a grievous error! The blood had been shed in vain--neither silver, nor gold, nor jewels were there. Naught of any value in this world. It was a little measure of sand from the Holy Land, to be strewn on his face at burial. That, the wealthy man had wished to save from the hands and gaze of strangers. That had shed his blood ... and the soul seizes a blood-soiled particle of the sand and knocks at the little window of Heaven. Her first gift found ready acceptance. III. THE SECOND GIFT