rry. Now and then her voice broke,
for she had loved Matilda Hoffman dearly; but she went bravely on
until the end, when she placed the little package in Irving's hand.
"She said I was to give you this," she told him, and looked away while
he opened the cord with fingers that trembled a little.

The tokens that Washington Irving now gazed upon with tear-dimmed eyes
and which were never to leave his possession during all the years when
he was to acquire fame and wealth as America's leading author were a
little prayer book and Bible. Between the pages of the latter the dead
girl had placed a lock of her bright hair; as he raised the worn
little book several faded rose leaves fell upon the carpet.

"I pressed one of the roses from her coffin for you," Rebecca told
him. "I did not think it would fade so soon."

There was a long silence between them, then, the two books pressed
again his cheek, the young man burst into a fit of passionate weeping.
"It was not right," he cried fiercely. "She was so good and beautiful
and young. And we would have been so happy together. It was not right
that she should die."

"I know--I loved her, too," said Rebecca gently.

He turned upon her almost angrily. "You can never know. I was her
lover; you were only her friend."

"'The heart knoweth its own bitterness'," quoted the girl softly.

But Irving impatiently shook off the pitying hand she had dropped upon
his arm, "What do you know of sorrow?" he demanded. "You have
everything your heart can desire; wealth, youth, beauty, friends--I
have no one."

"And with all my gifts I am more unhappy than you," Rebecca persisted.
"For I have not even the memory of a happy friendship and love like
yours to bring me comfort now."

For a moment Irving forgot his own grief. "I do not understand," he
murmured.

She smiled sadly. "You will not repeat this, I know," she told him
quietly. "Only my own family know, but you have been such a close
friend of my brother's that my secret is safe with you. I have
loved--and been loved--by a young man who was all my parents could
desire for me. But last month he went away and I shall never see him
again."

For the first time that evening Irving's eyes met hers. The girl's
glance was sad but very brave. "I do not understand," he repeated.

Again she smiled sadly. "You know how liberal my family have always
been in their religious opinions. We have always mingled freely with
non-Jews; Matilda, although n