ong the narrow passage and up the
gloomy wooden stairs, at the foot of which there hung a small lamp,
giving just light enough to expel the actual blackness of night. On the
first landing Nina knocked at a door, and was desired to enter by a
soft female voice. The only occupant of the room when she entered was a
dark-haired child, some twelve years old perhaps, but small in stature
and delicate, and, as appeared to the eye, almost wan. "Well, Ruth
dear," said Nina, "is Anton at home this evening?"

"He is up-stairs with grandfather, Nina. Shall I tell him?"

"If you will, dear," said Nina, stooping down and kissing her.

"Nice Nina, dear Nina, good Nina," said the girl, rubbing her glossy
curls against her friend's cheeks. "Ah, dear, how I wish you lived
here!"

"But I have a father, as you have a grandfather, Ruth."

"And he is a Christian."

"And so am I, Ruth."

"But you like us, and are good, and nice, and dear--and oh, Nina, you
are so beautiful! I wish you were one of us, and lived here. There is
Miriam Harter--her hair is as light as yours, and her eyes are as
grey."

"What has that to do with it?"

"Only I am so dark, and most of us are dark here in Prague. Anton says
that away in Palestine our girls are as fair as the girls in Saxony."

"And does not Anton like girls to be dark?"

"Anton likes fair hair--such as yours--and bright grey eyes such as
you have got. I said they were green, and he pulled my ears. But now
I look, Nina, I think they are green. And so bright! I can see my own
in them, though it is so dark. That is what they call looking babies."

"Go to your uncle, Ruth, and tell him that I want him--on business."

"I will, and he'll come to you. He won't let me come down again, so
kiss me, Nina; good-bye."

Nina kissed the child again, and then was left alone in the room. It
was a comfortable chamber, having in it sofas and arm-chairs--much more
comfortable, Nina used to think, than her aunt's grand drawing-room in
the Windberg-gasse, which was covered all over with a carpet, after the
fashion of drawing-rooms in Paris; but the Jew's sitting-room was dark,
with walls painted a gloomy green colour, and there was but one small
lamp of oil upon the table. But yet Nina loved the room, and as she sat
there waiting for her lover, she wished that it had been her lot to
have been born a Jewess. Only, had that been so, her hair might perhaps
have been black, and her eyes dark, and Anton would n