A tangle of memories was stirring in Ginzburg's head, all relating to deaths and graves. He lived through the death of their first child with all details--his father's death, his mother's--early in a summer morning--that was--that was--he recalls it--as though it were to-day. "What is to-day?" he wonders. "What day of the month is it?" And then he remembers, it is the first of May. "The same day," he murmurs, as if he were talking in his sleep. "What the same day?" asks Dobe. "Nothing," says Ginzburg. "I was thinking of something." He went on thinking, and fell into a doze where he sat. He saw his mother enter the room with a soft step, take a chair, and sit down by the sick child. "Mother, save it!" he begs her, his heart is full to bursting, and he begins to cry. "Isrolik," says his mother, "I have brought a remedy for the child that bears my name." "Mame!!!" He is about to throw himself upon her neck and kiss her, but she motions him lightly aside. "Why do you never light a candle for my Yohrzeit?" she inquires, and looks at him reproachfully. "Mame, have pity on us, save the child!" "The child will live, only you must light me a candle." "Mame" (he sobs louder), "have pity!" "Light my candle--make haste, make haste--" "Ginzburg!" a shriek from his wife, and he awoke with a start. "Ginzburg, the child is dying! Fly for the doctor." Ginzburg cast a look at the child, a chill went through him, he ran to the door. The doctor came in person. "Our child is dying! Help save it!" wailed the unhappy mother, and he, Ginzburg, stood and shivered as with cold. The doctor scrutinized the child, and said: "The crisis is coming on." There was something dreadful in the quiet of his tone. "What can be done?" and the Ginzburgs wrung their hands. "Hush! Nothing! Bring some hot water, bottles of hot water!--Champagne!--Where is the medicine? Quick!" commanded the doctor. Everything was to hand and ready in an instant. The doctor began to busy himself with the child, the parents stood by pale as death. "Well," asked Dobe, "what?" "We shall soon know," said the doctor. Ginzburg looked round, glided like a shadow into a corner of the room, and lit the little lamp that stood there. "What is that for?" asked Dobe, in a fright. "Nothing, Yohrzeit--my mother's," he answered in a strange voice, and his hands never ceased trembling. "Your child will live," said the doctor, and father and mother fell upon the child's bed with their faces, and wept. The flame in the lamp burnt brighter and brighter. SLACK TIMES THEY SLEEP Despite the fact of the winter nights being long and dark as the Jewish exile, the Breklins go to bed at dusk.