practiced deception, by searching his
pockets when they had come to the Eruv, as though to make sure not to
transgress by having anything inside them.

Sholem, too, was taken by surprise. He hung his head, and his eyes
filled with tears. The old man was about to say something, probably to
begin again with "What is all this?" Then he hastily stopt and snatched
up the folio, as though he were afraid Sholem might get hold of it
first.

"Ha--ha--azoi!" he began panting. "Azoi! A heretic! A Goi."

But it was hard for him to speak. He might not move from where he stood,
so long as he held the papers, it being outside the Eruv. His ankles
were giving way, and he sat down to have a look at the manuscript.

"Aha! Writing!" he exclaimed as he turned the leaves. "Come here to me,"
he called to Sholem, who had moved a few steps aside. Sholem came and
stood obediently before him. "What is this?" asked the Rav, sternly.

"Poems!"

"What do you mean by poems? What is the good of them?" He felt that he
was growing weak again, and tried to stiffen himself morally. "What is
the good of them, heretic, tell me!"

"They're just meant to read, Tatishe!"

"What do you mean by 'read'? A Jeroboam son of Nebat, that's what you
want to be, is it? A Jeroboam son of Nebat, to lead others into heresy!
No! I won't have it! On no account will I have it!"

The sun had begun to disappear; it was full time to go home; but the Rav
did not know what to do with the folio. He was afraid to leave it in the
field, lest Sholem or another should pick it up later, so he got up and
began to recite the Afternoon Prayer. Sholem remained standing in his
place, and tried to think of nothing and to do nothing.

The old man finished "Sacrifices," tucked the folio into his girdle,
and, without moving a step, looked at Sholem, who did not move either.

"Say the Afternoon Prayer, Shegetz!" commanded the old man.

Sholem began to move his lips. And the Rav felt, as he went on with the
prayer, that this anger was cooling down. Before he came to the
Eighteen Benedictions, he gave another look at his son, and it seemed
madness to think of him as a heretic, to think that Sholem ought by
rights to be thrown into a ditch and stoned to death.

Sholem, for his part, was conscious for the first time of his father's
will: for the first time in his life, he not only loved his father, but
was in very truth subject to him.

The flaming red sun dropt quietly down behind