steeped in silence, stores and shops bolted, a wail of anguish issuing from every door and window—the only one remaining in his shop that day was old Zelig. His fellow-workmen did not call upon him to join the procession. They felt the incongruity of “this brute” in line with mourners in muffled tread. And the Gentile watchman reported the next day that the moment the funeral dirge of the music echoed from a distant street, Zelig snatched off the greasy cap he always wore, and in confusion instantly put it on again. “All the rest of the day,” the Pole related with awe, “he looked wilder than ever, and so thumped with his own on the cloth that I feared the building would come down.”

But Zelig paid little heed to what was said about him. He dedicated his existence to the saving of his earnings, and only feared that he might be compelled to spend some of them. More than once his wife would be appalled in the dark of night by the silhouette of old Zelig in nightdress sitting up in bed and counting a bundle of bank notes which he always replaced under his pillow. She frequently upbraided him for his niggardly nature, for his warding off all requests outside the pittance for household expense. She pleaded, exhorted, wailed. He invariably answered: “I haven’t a cent by my soul.” She pointed to the bare walls, the broken furniture, their beggarly attire. “Our son is ill,” she moaned; “he needs special food and rest: and our grandson is no more a baby; he’ll soon need money for his studies. Dark is my world; you are killing both of them.”

Zelig’s colour vanished; his old hands shook with emotion. The poor woman thought herself successful, but the next moment he would gasp: “Not a cent by my soul.”

One day old Zelig was called from his shop because his son had a sudden severe attack; and, as he ascended the stairs of his home, a neighbour shouted: “Run for a doctor; the patient cannot be revived.” A voice as if from a tomb suddenly sounded in reply, “I haven’t a cent by my soul.” The hallway was crowded with the ragged tenants of the house, mostly women and children; from far off were heard the rhythmic cries of the mother. The old man stood for a moment as if chilled from the roots of his hair to the tips of his fingers. Then the neighbours heard his sepulchral mumble: “I’ll have to borrow somewheres, beg some one,” as he retreated down the stairs. He brought a physician; and when the grandson asked for money to go for the medicine, Zelig snatched the prescription and hurried away, still murmuring: “I’ll have to borrow, I’ll have to beg.”

Late that night the neighbours heard a wail issuing from old Zelig’s apartment; and they understood that the son was no more.

Zelig’s purse was considerably thinned. He drew from it with palsied fingers for all burial expenses, looking about him in a dazed way. Mechanically he performed the Hebrew rites for the dead, which his neighbours taught him. He took a knife and made a deep gash in his shabby coat; then he removed his shoes, seated himself on the floor, and bowed his poor old head, tearless, benumbed.

The shop stared when the old man appeared after the prescribed three days’ absence. Even the Pole dared not come near him. A film seemed to coat his glaring eye, deep wrinkles contracted his features, and his muscular frame appeared to shrink even as one looked. From that day on he began to starve himself more than ever. The passion for sailing back to Russia, “to die at home at last,” lost but little of its original intensity. Yet there was something now which by a feeble thread bound him to the New World.

In a little mound on the Base Achaim, “the House of Life,” under a tombstone engraved with old Hebrew script, a part of himself lay buried. But he kept his thoughts away from that mound. How long and untiringly he kept on saving! Age gained on him with rapid strides. He had little strength left for work, but his dream of home seemed nearing its realisation. Only a few more weeks, a few more months! And the thought sent a glow of warmth to his frozen frame. He would even condescend now to speak to his wife concerning the plans he had formed for their future welfare, more especially when she revived her pecuniary complaints.