cabees." He
raised flashing eyes to his teacher's face and something that he saw
there made the happiness die out of his own. Boy that he was, he
realized the ache in the rabbi's heart at leaving his work and his
friends behind him.

"I'm sorry you have to go, Mr. Seixas," he said simply.

The young minister turned his somber eyes back toward the synagogue
which he had entered a year before, his heart burning with great hopes
for the future. Now, with the Torah in his arms, his congregation
scattered, he felt himself a fugitive on the face of the earth. He
looked about him at the older folk like Mistress Phillips whose dying
bedside he might never comfort, at the little children he could no
longer teach. Lastly he looked down into the tearful eyes of his young
bride--a bride of a year, with exile and hardship before her. Then he
straightened his shoulders and spoke bravely.

"Some day," said Rabbi Seixas, "I will return to serve our God in a
city that He has made free."

THE GENEROUS GIVER

_The Story of a Jewish Money Lender of the Revolution._

Jonas Schmidt, one of the jailors of the Provost, the grim old prison
in New York, where the British had confined their numerous French and
American prisoners after capturing the city from Washington in 1776,
stood before Sir Henry Clinton, the English commander, shifting
uneasily as he fumbled his cap with his great, hairy hands. Sir Henry
looked him over coldly with his quiet, keen eyes that cowed man and
horse alike; then he turned to his companion, General Heister,
Commander of the Hessian mercenaries, purchased by the British king
and sent overseas to fight his battles.

"We can get nothing out of this man," he said in a tone of cold
contempt. "He is either too stupid--or clever enough to appear so!--to
answer our questions." He nodded to the embarrassed jailor. "You may
go now. But remember: if escapes become too numerous, I may find it
necessary to use the gallows in the courtyard yonder and find another
jailor for my prison."

Jonas bowed respectfully and lost no time in putting the door between
him and Sir Henry. Tory though he was, the old man hated the English
commander with all the strength of his simple soul. He had been eager
enough to secure the situation of jailor at the Provost, never
dreaming of the horrors he might see there. Now, sickened with the
prison stenches, with the half-starved prisoners wasting away with
fever and dying before his