othing more.

The years rolled on. The children were growing up. Ephraim had entered
his fifteenth year. Viola was a little pale girl of twelve. In the
opinion of the Ghetto they were the most extraordinary children in the
world. In the midst of the harassing life to which her marriage with
the gambler had brought her, Gudule so reared them that they grew to be
living reflections of her own inmost being. People wondered when they
beheld the strange development of "Wild" Ascher's children.

Their natures were as proud and reserved as that of their mother. They
did not associate with the youth of the Ghetto; it seemed as though
they were not of their kind, as though an insurmountable barrier divided
them. And many a bitter sneer was hurled at Gudule's head.

"Does she imagine," she often heard people whisper, "that because her
father was a farmer her children are princes? Let her remember that her
husband is but a common gambler."

How different would have been their thoughts had they known that the
children were Gudule's sole comfort. What their father had never heard
from her, she poured into their youthful souls. No tear their mother
shed was unobserved by them; they knew when their father had lost, and
when he had won; they knew, too, all the varying moods of his unhinged
mind; and in this terrible school of misery they acquired an instinctive
intelligence, which in the eyes of strangers seemed mere precocity.

The two children, however, had early given evidence of a marked
difference in disposition. Ephraim's nature was one of an almost
feminine gentleness, whilst Viola was strong-willed and proudly
reserved.

"Mother," she said one day, "do you think he will continue to play much
longer?"

"Viola, how can you talk like that?" Ephraim cried, greatly disturbed.

Thereupon Viola impetuously flung her arms round her mother's neck,
and for some moments she clung to her with all the strength of her
passionate nature. It was as though in that wild embrace she would fain
pour forth the long pent-up sorrows of her blighted childhood.

"Mother!" she cried, "you are so good to him. Never, never shall he have
such kindness from me!"

"Ephraim," said Gudule, "speak to your sister. In her sinful anger,
Viola would revenge herself upon her own father. Does it so beseem a
Jewish child?"

"Why does he treat you so cruelly, then?" Viola almost hissed the words.

Soon after fell the final crushing blow. Ascher had been a