she will write
you all the love and gratitude that is in our hearts." He bent over
Mistress Salomon's hand with all the courtly breeding of his race.
"It is only _Au revoir_ tonight, Madame, for I will try to see you
again before I leave Philadelphia."

He gathered his cloak about him and went out into the storm, leaving
Salomon to meet his wife's reproachful eyes. "Yes, I know, heart's
dearest, that I should not give silver cups to beggarly Frenchmen," he
told her with a whimsical smile, "for who knows when we will have to
pawn the little that remains of our silver. But until then--" he
shrugged goodnaturedly, and a fit of coughing drowned the rest.

Several days later young Louis di Vernon sat in a coffee house, his
traveling bag and a bundle of toys and goodies for the little Salomon
children at his feet. Over his cup he read the latest edition of the
"Pennsylvania Journal and Weekly Advertiser," pausing to stare at a
modest notice tucked in an obscure corner of the sheet. He put down
his cup untasted and read it again with whitening lips: "On Thursday
died Haym Salomon, a broker."

ACROSS THE WATERS

_A Story of the City of Refuge Planned by Mordecai Noah._

The two children stood hand in hand in a corner of Mr. Mordecai Noah's
handsome library in New York, both badly frightened, although the boy
tried hard to appear at ease in his strange surroundings. They still
wore the dress of their native Tunis; Hushiel in silken blouse and
short black trousers, with mantle and fez such as Mohammedans wear,
his little sister, Peninah, a quaint picture in her short jacket,
baggy trousers and pointed cap. No wonder the old family servant, who
had gasped when admitting them, had gone off to summon his master,
declaring to himself that these visitors looked even more heathenish
than the painted Indians who occasionally called upon Mr. Noah at his
Buffalo home.

"Do sit down, Peninah," suggested the boy in a half-whisper, too
overawed by the elegant furnishings and long rows of books to speak
out loud. He pointed to a tall, carved arm chair but Peninah shook her
head and clung more tightly to his arm.

"It's all so strange," she whispered back, "just like an old tale
Nissim, the story teller, used to tell sometimes at home--all of it,
the big ship, and the many people when we came on shore in New York
and this room--" with a gesture towards the table on which stood a
tea service of heavy silver. "He must be a prin