ed astonished
in the direction whence it came. Upon the threshold of the hut sat
Lejbele, holding in his arms a snow-white kid. The kid had been
purchased at the fair with the money Golda had taken for the baskets.
The child had seen it in the entrance, brought it out on the
threshold, and nestled his face to the soft white hair and laughed
aloud.

"The child always follows you," said Golda. "He kissed me to-day,
when everybody beat and stoned me; with him I shielded my treasure
against their strong hands," replied Meir. Golda disappeared from the
window and stood upon the threshold. She bent over the child, her
flowing hair covered his head and shoulders, and she kissed him on
the forehead. Lejbele was not frightened; he seemed to feel safe
here. He had seen the girl before, whose luminous eyes looked at him
with an expression of great sweetness. He raised his grateful, now almost
intelligent, eyes to her, and whispered:

"Let me play with this little goat?"

"Will you have some milk?" said Golda.

"Yes," he said; "please give me some."

She brought a bowl full of milk and fed the child; then asked:

"Why do you leave your father and mother, and follow Meir?"

The child rocked his head and replied:

"He is better than daddy, and better than mammy. He fed me and patted
my head, and saved me from Reb Moshe."

"Whose little boy are you?" asked Golda. Lejbele remained silent and
kept on rocking his head. He evidently tried to collect his confused
thoughts. Suddenly he raised his finger and pointed after the
retreating figure of Meir, and said aloud:

"I am his."

And he laughed: but it was no longer the laugh of an idiot, only the
expression of joy that he had found the way to clothe in words the
thoughts of his loving little heart.

Golda looked in the direction where Meir had disappeared, and sighed
heavily. Presently she rose, wrapped herself in a gray shawl, went
half-way up the hill, and sat down under a dwarfed pine-tree. Perhaps
she wanted to look down and watch his return from the woods. Her
elbows resting on her knees--her face buried in her hands, she sat
motionless, like a statue of sorrow; the black hair which covered her
like a mantle, glittered and shone in the bright moonlight.

At the same time the low door of the Rabbi's hut was softly opened
and Reb Moshe crept in, looking worn, ashamed and troubled. He
squatted down near the fireplace and looked anxiously at Isaak Todros
who sat in the