head growing heavier, his feet cold, and it is
dark before his eyes.

When he came to himself again, he was in bed; on his head was a bandage
with ice; the old wife was lamenting; the teachers stood not far from
the bed, and talked among themselves. He wanted to lift his hand and
draw it across his forehead, but somehow he does not feel his hand at
all. He looks at it--it lies stretched out beside him. And Reb Shloimeh
understood what had happened to him.

"A stroke!" he thought, "I am finished, done for!"

He tried to give a whistle and make a gesture with his hand:
"Verfallen!" but the lips would not meet properly, and the hand never
moved.

"There you are, done for!" the lips whispered. He glanced round, and
fixed his eyes on the teachers, and then on his wife, wishing to read in
their faces whether there was danger, whether he was dying, or whether
there was still hope. He looked, and could not make out anything. Then,
whispering, he called one of the teachers, whose looks had met his, to
his side.

The teacher came running.

"Done for, eh?" asked Reb Shloimeh.

"No, Reb Shloimeh, the doctors give hope," the teacher replied, so
earnestly that Reb Shloimeh's spirits revived.

"Nu, nu," said Reb Shloimeh, as though he meant, "So may it be! Out of
your mouth into God's ears!"

The other teachers all came nearer.

"Good?" whispered Reb Shloimeh, "good, ha? There's a hero for you!" he
smiled.

"Never mind," they said cheeringly, "you will get well again, and work,
and do many things yet!"

"Well, well, please God!" he answered, and looked away.

And Reb Shloimeh really got better every day. The having lived wisely
and the will to live longer saved him.

The first time that he was able to move a hand or lift a foot, a broad,
sweet smile spread itself over his face, and a fire kindled in his all
but extinguished eyes.

"Good luck to you!" he cried out to those around. He was very cheerful
in himself, and began to think once more about doing something or other.
"People must be taught, they must be taught, even if the world turn
upside down," he thought, and rubbed his hands together with impatience.

"If it's not to be in the Talmud Torah, it must be somewhere else!" And
he set to work thinking where it should be. He recalled all the
neighbors to his memory, and suddenly grew cheerful.

Not far away there lived a bookbinder, who employed as many as ten
workmen. They work sometimes from fifteen to six