ot? When Chune Benefski's little boy was so sick that they thought
he was already dead, a parchment blessed by the _bal-shem_ brought him
back to life. Is Mendel less to you than your own son would be?"

"God forbid," said Hirsch; then added, reflectively: "but to-day is
Thursday. It will take a day and a half to reach Tchernigof, and the
messenger will arrive there just before _Shabbes_. He cannot start on
his return until Saturday evening, and by the time he got back Mendel
would be cold in death. No; it is too far!"

"_Shaute!_" (Nonsense!) ejaculated his wife, who was now warmed up to
the subject. "Do you imagine the _bal-shem_ cannot cure at a distance as
well as though he were at the patient's bedside? Lose no time. God did
not deliver Mendel out of the hands of the soldiers to let him die in
our house."

One of the most fantastic notions of Cabalistic teaching was that
certain persons, possessing a clue to the mysterious powers of nature,
were enabled to control its laws, to heal the sick, to compel even the
Almighty to do their behests. Such a man, such a miracle worker, was
called a _bal-shem_.

That a _bal-shem_ should thrive and grow fat is a matter of course, for
consultations were often paid for in gold. To the wonder-working Rabbi
travelled all those who had a petition to bring to the Throne of
God--the old and decrepit who desired to defraud the grave of a few
miserable years; the unfortunate who wished to improve his condition;
the oppressed who yearned for relief from a tyrannical taskmaster; the
father who prayed for a husband for his fast aging daughter; the sick,
the halt, the maim, the malcontent, the egotist--all sought the aid, the
mediation of the holy man. He refused no one his assistance, declined no
one's proffered gifts.

It was finally decided to send to the _bal-shem_ to effect Mendel's
cure. But time was pressing, Mendel was growing visibly worse and
Tchernigof was a long way off!

Hirsch rose to go in search of a messenger.

"Whom will you send?" asked his wife, accompanying him to the door.

"The beadle, Itzig Maier, of course," rang back Hirsch's answer, as he
strode rapidly down the street.

Let us accompany him to Itzig Maier's house, situated in the poorest
quarter of Kief. In a narrow lane stood a low, dingy, wooden hut, whose
boards were rotting with age. The little windows were covered for the
most part with greased paper in lieu of the panes that had years ago
been des