"Listen to me, Reb Moisheh!" said Berel, still sobbing. "The hundred rubles you lost a few weeks ago are in my house!... God knows the truth, I didn't take them out of wickedness. I came into your house, the key was in the drawer ... there was no one in the room.... That day I'd had a letter from my Mechutton that he'd break off his son's engagement if the wedding didn't take place to time.... My girl is ugly and old ... the bridegroom is a fine young man ... a precious stone.... I opened the drawer in spite of myself ... and saw the bank-notes.... You see how it was?... My Mechutton is a Misnaggid ... a flint-hearted screw.... I took out the note ... but it is shortening my years!... God knows what I bore and suffered at the time.... To-night I will bring you the note back.... Forgive me!... Let the Mechutton break off the match, if he chooses, let the woman fret away her years, so long as I am rid of the serpent that is gnawing at my heart, and gives me no peace! I never before touched a ruble belonging to anyone else, and become a thief in my latter years I won't!" Moisheh Chalfon did not answer him for a little while. He took out his snuff, and had a pinch, then he took out of the bosom of his robe a great red handkerchief, wiped his nose, and reflected a minute or two. Then he said quietly: "If a match were broken off through me, I should be sorry. You certainly behaved as you should not have, in taking the money without leave, but it is written: Judge not thy neighbor till thou hast stood in his place. You shall keep the hundred rubles. Come to-night and bring me an I. O. U., and begin to repay me little by little." "What are you, an angel?" exclaimed Berel, weeping. "God forbid," replied Moisheh Chalfon, quietly, "I am what you are. You are a Jew, and I also am a Jew." ISAIAH LERNER Born, 1861, in Zwoniec, Podolia, Southwestern Russia; co-editor of die Bibliothek Dos Leben, published at Odessa, 1904, and Kishineff, 1905. BERTZI WASSERFUeHRER I The first night of Passover. It is already about ten o'clock. Outside it is dark, wet, cold as the grave. A fine, close, sleety rain is driving down, a light, sharp, fitful wind blows, whistles, sighs, and whines, and wanders round on every side, like a returned and sinful soul seeking means to qualify for eternal bliss. The mud is very thick, and reaches nearly to the waist.