portant items to posterity than the dead stones, which were all he,
the sculptor, bade fair to leave behind him. Welcoming each new child
with feasting and psalmody, never for a moment had Nehemiah lost his
robustious faith in life, his belief in God, man, or himself.

Yes, even deeper than his own self-respect was his respect for
others. An impenetrable idealist, he lived surrounded by a radiant
humanity, by men become as Gods. With no conscious hyperbole did he
address one as 'Angel.' Intellect and goodness were his pole-stars.
And what airy courage in his mundane affairs, what invincible
resilience! He had once been a dentist, and he still considered
himself one. Before he owned a tablecloth he deemed himself the
proprietor of a restaurant. He enjoyed alike the pleasures of
anticipation and of memory, and having nothing, glided ever buoyantly
between two gilded horizons. The superficial might call him shiftless,
but more profoundly envisaged, was he not rather an education in the
art of living? Did he not incarnate the great Jewish gospel of the
improvident lilies?

'You shall not go to Bursia,' said Barstein in a burst of artistic
fervour. 'Thirteen people cannot possibly get there for fifteen pounds
or even twenty-five pounds, and for such a sum you could start a small
business here.'

Nehemiah stared at him. 'God's messenger!' was all he could gasp. Then
the tall melancholy man raised his eyes to heaven, and uttered a
Hebrew voluntary in which references to the ram whose horns were
caught in the thicket to save Isaac's life were distinctly audible.

Barstein waited patiently till the pious lips were at rest.

'But what business do you think you----?' he began.

'Shall I presume dictation to the angel?' asked Nehemiah with wet
shining eyes.

'I am thinking that perhaps we might find something in which your
children could help you. How old is the eldest?'

'I will ask my wife. Salome!' he cried. The dismal creature trotted
in.

'How old is Moshele?' he asked.

'And don't you remember he was twelve last Tabernacles?'

Nehemiah threw up his long arms. 'Merciful Heaven! He must soon begin
to learn his _Parshah_ (confirmation portion). What will it be? Where
is my _Chumash_ (Pentateuch)?' Mrs. Silvermann drew it down from the
row of ragged books, and Nehemiah, fluttering the pages and bending
over the rushlight, became lost to the problem of his future.

Barstein addressed himself to the wife. 'What busin