The interest of the bystanders waxed more lively. Among them stood a storekeeper, whose shop was close by. "Give him, Chayyim, a few jars of salt and other things that he wants--even if it comes to a few gulden. We will contribute." "All right, willingly!" said Chayyim, "A poor Gentile!" "A precept, a precept! It would be carrying out a religious precept, as surely as I am a Jew!" chimed in every individual member of the crowd. Chayyim called the peasant to him; all the rest followed. He gave him out of the stores two jars of salt, a bar of soap, a bottle of petroleum, and two packets of tobacco. The peasant did not know what to do for joy. He could only stammer in a low voice, "Thank you! thank you!" "And there's a bit of Sabbath loaf," called out one, when he had packed the things away, "take that with you!" "There's some more!" and a second hand held some out to him. "More!" "More!" "And more!" They brought Antosh bread and cake from all sides; his astonishment was such that he could scarcely articulate his thanks. The people were pleased with themselves, and Yainkel Leives, a cheerful man, who was well supplied for the festival, because his daughter's "intended" was staying in his house, brought Antosh a glass of brandy: "Drink, and drive home, in the name of God!" Antosh drank the brandy with a quick gulp, bit off a piece of cake, and declared joyfully, "I shall never forget it!" "Not at all a bad Gentile," remarked someone in the crowd. "Well, what would you have? Did you expect him to beat you?" queried another, smiling. The words "to beat" made a melancholy impression on the crowd, and it dispersed in silence. THE KADDISH From behind the curtain came low moans, and low words of encouragement from the old and experienced Bobbe. In the room it was dismal to suffocation. The seven children, all girls, between twenty-three and four years old, sat quietly, each by herself, with drooping head, and waited for something dreadful. At a little table near a great cupboard with books sat the "patriarch" Reb Selig Chanes, a tall, thin Jew, with a yellow, consumptive face. He was chanting in low, broken tones out of a big Gemoreh, and continually raising his head, giving a nervous glance at the curtain, and then, without inquiring what might be going on beyond the low moaning, taking up once again his sad, tremulous chant. He seemed to be suffering more than the woman in childbirth herself. "Lord of the World!"--it was the eldest daughter who broke the stillness--"Let it be a boy for once! Help, Lord of the World, have pity!" "Oi, thus might it be, Lord of the World!" chimed in the second. And all the girls, little and big, with broken heart and prostrate spirit, prayed that there might be born a boy. Reb Selig raised his eyes from the Gemoreh, glanced at the curtain, then at the seven girls, gave vent to a deep-drawn Oi, made a gesture with his hand, and said with settled despair, "She will give you another sister!"