ith a heart full of wounds and the
bitterest annoyance, and greatly excited. I was not angry with Benny.
God forbid! What had I against him? How was he to blame if he always won
at play? If the top fell on the G for me, he said, I should win. If it
falls on the G for him, then he wins. And he is quite right. No, I am
only sorry for myself, for having run through so much money--my mother's
hard-earned "_groschens_," and for having made away with all my things.
I was left almost naked. I even sold my little prayer-book. O that
prayer-book, that prayer-book! When I think of it, my heart aches, and
my face burns with shame. It was an ornament, not a book. My mother
bought it of Pethachiah the pedlar, on the anniversary of my father's
death. And it was a book of books--a good one, a real good one, thick,
and full of everything. It had every prayer one could mention, the "Song
of Songs," the Ethics of the Fathers, and the Psalms, and the
"_Haggadah_," and all the prayers of the whole year round. Then the
print and the binding, and the gold lettering. It was full of
everything, I tell you. Each time Pethachiah the pedlar came round with
his cut moustache that made his careworn face appear as if it was
smiling--each time he came round and opened his pack outside the
synagogue door, I could not take my eyes off that prayer-book.

"What would you say, little boy?" asked Pethachiah, as if he did not
know that I had my eyes on the prayer-book, and had had it in my hands
seventeen times, each time asking the price of it.

"Nothing," I replied. "Just so!" And I left him, so as not to be
tempted.

"Ah, mother, you should see the fine thing Pethachiah the pedlar has."

"What sort of a thing?" asked my mother.

"A little prayer-book. If I had such a prayer-book, I would--I don't
know myself what I would do."

"Haven't you got a prayer-book? And where is your father's prayer-book?"

"You can't compare them. This is an ornament, and my book is only a
book."

"An ornament?" repeated my mother. "Are there then more prayers in an
ornamental book, or do the prayers sound better?"

Well, how can you explain an ornament to your mother--a really fine book
with red covers, and blue edges, and a green back?

"Come," said my mother to me, one evening, taking me by the hand. "Come
with me to the synagogue. Tomorrow is the anniversary of your father's
death. We will bring candles to be lit for him, and at the same time we
will see what so