He would have liked to try the note once more as he walked, but the street was just then full of people, and he tried to refrain till he should reach home. Contrary to his usual custom, he began taking rapid steps, and it looked as if he were running away from someone. On reaching home, he put away his prayer-scarf without saying so much as good morning, recovered his breath after the quick walk, and began to sing, "He shall be our guide until death." "That's right, you have so little time to sing in! The day is too short for you!" exclaimed the cantoress, angrily. "It grates on the ears enough already!" "How, it grates?" and the cantor's eyes opened wide with fright, "I sing a note, and you say 'it grates'? How can it grate?" He looked at her imploringly, his eyes said: "Have pity on me! Don't say, 'it grates'! because if it _does_ grate, I am miserable, I am done for!" But the cantoress was much too busy and preoccupied with the dinner to sympathize and to understand how things stood with her husband, and went on: "Of course it grates! Why shouldn't it? It deafens me. When you sing in the choir, I have to bear it, but when you begin by yourself--what?" The cantor had grown as white as chalk, and only just managed to say: "Grune, are you mad? What are you talking about?" "What ails the man to-day!" exclaimed Grune, impatiently. "You've made a fool of yourself long enough! Go and wash your hands and come to dinner!" The cantor felt no appetite, but he reflected that one must eat, if only as a remedy; not to eat would make matters worse, and he washed his hands. He chanted the grace loud and cantor-like, glancing occasionally at his wife, to see if she noticed anything wrong; but this time she said nothing at all, and he was reassured. "It was my fancy--just my fancy!" he said to himself. "All nonsense! One doesn't lose one's voice so soon as all that!" Then he remembered that he was already forty years old, and it had happened to the cantor Meyer Lieder, when he was just that age-- That was enough to put him into a fright again. He bent his head, and thought deeply. Then he raised it, and called out loud: "Grune!" "Hush! What is it? What makes you call out in that strange voice?" asked Grune, crossly, running in. "Well, well, let me live!" said the cantor. "Why do you say 'in that strange voice'? Whose voice was it? eh? What is the matter now?" There was a sound as of tears as he spoke. "You're cracked to-day! As nonsensical--Well, what do you want?" "Beat up one or two eggs for me!" begged the cantor, softly. "Here's a new holiday!" screamed Grune. "On a Wednesday! Have you got to chant the Sabbath prayers? Eggs are so dear now--five kopeks apiece!" "Grune," commanded the cantor, "they may be one ruble apiece, two rubles, five rubles, one hundred rubles. Do you hear? Beat up two eggs for me, and don't talk!" "To be sure, you earn so much money!" muttered Grune.