nd he was supremely happy.

The town, of course, was aware of Reb Shloimeh's constant visits to the
bookbinder's, and quickly found out what he did there.

"He's just off his head!" they laughed, and shrugged their shoulders.
They even laughed in Reb Shloimeh's face, but he took no notice of it.

His pleasure, however, came to a speedy end. One day the binder spoke
out.

"Reb Shloimeh," he said shortly, "you prevent us from working with your
stories. What do you mean by it? You come and interfere with the work."

"But do I disturb?" he asked. "They go on working all the time----"

"And a pretty way of working," answered the bookbinder. "The boys are
ready enough at finding an excuse for idling as it is! And why do you
choose me? There are plenty of other workshops----"

It was an honest "neck and crop" business, and there was nothing left
for Reb Shloimeh but to take up his stick and go.

"Nothing--again!" he whispered.

There was a sting in his heart, a beating in his temples, and his head
burned.

"Nothing--again! This time it's all over. I must die--die--a story
_with_ an end."

Had he been young, he would have known what to do. He would never have
begun to think about death, but now--where was the use of living on?
What was there to wait for? All over!--all over!--

It was as much as he could do to get home. He sat down in the arm-chair,
laid his head back, and thought.

He pictured to himself the last weeks at the bookbinder's and the change
that had taken place in the workmen; how they had appeared
better-mannered, more human, more intelligent. It seemed to him that he
had implanted in them the love of knowledge and the inclination to
study, had put them in the way of viewing more rightly what went on
around them. He had been of some account with them--and all of a
sudden--!

"No!" he said to himself. "They will come to me--they must come!" he
thought, and fixed his eyes on the door.

He even forgot that they worked till nine o'clock at night, and the
whole evening he never took his eyes off the door.

The time flew, it grew later and later, and the book-binders did not
come.

At last he could bear it no longer, and went out into the street;
perhaps he would see them, and then he would call them in.

It was dark in the street; the gas lamps, few and far between, scarcely
gave any light. A chilly autumn night; the air was saturated with
moisture, and there was dreadful mud under foot. There w