am a Jew,' he said tonelessly.

'Cannot marry you!' she whispered huskily. 'Oh, but this must not be!
I will go to the father; I will explain! You saved his son--he owes
you his daughter.'

He waved her hopelessly back to her seat--for she had started up. 'It
isn't the father, it's herself. Now that I won't let her drift any
longer, she can't bring herself to it. She's honest, anyway, my little
Lucy. She won't fall back on the old Jew-baiter.'

'But how dare she--how dare she think herself above you!' Her dog-like
eyes were blazing yet once again.

'Why are you Jews surprised?' he said bitterly. 'You've held yourself
aloof from the others long enough, God knows. Yet you wonder they've
got their prejudices, too.'

And, suddenly laying his head on the table, he broke into sobs--sobs
that tore at his mother's heart, that were charged with memories of
his ancient tears, of the days of paternal wrath and the rending of
'The Pirates of Pechili.' And, again, as in the days when his boyish
treasures were changed to ashes, she stole towards him, with an
involuntary furtive look to see if S. Cohn's back was turned, and laid
her hands upon his heaving shoulders. But he shook her off! 'Why
didn't a Boer bullet strike me down?' Then with a swift pang of
remorse he raised his contorted face and drew hers close against
it--their love the one thing saved from Anglicization.

THE JEWISH TRINITY

THE JEWISH TRINITY

I

With the Christian Mayoress of Middleton to take in to dinner at Sir
Asher Aaronsberg's, Leopold Barstein as a Jewish native of that
thriving British centre, should have felt proud and happy. But
Barstein was young and a sculptor, fresh from the Paris schools and
Salon triumphs. He had long parted company with Jews and Judaism, and
to his ardent irreverence even the Christian glories of Middleton
seemed unspeakably parochial. In Paris he had danced at night on the
Boule Miche out of sheer joy of life, and joined in choruses over
midnight bocks; and London itself now seemed drab and joyless, though
many a gay circle welcomed the wit and high spirits and even the
physical graces of this fortunate young man who seemed to shed a
blonde radiance all around him. The factories of Middleton, which had
manufactured Sir Asher Aaronsberg, ex-M.P., and nearly all his wealthy
guests, were to his artistic eye an outrage upon a beautiful planet,
and he was still in that crude phase of juvenile revolt in which o