ightest suggestion on his part, as
though it were a command. He was to her a father and mother, and never
were parents more implicitly obeyed by a child than this brother by a
sister but three years his junior.

There was one subject, however, upon which Ephraim found his sister
implacable and firm--their absent father, the mere mention of whose name
made her tremble. Then there returned that haughty curl of the lips, and
all the other symptoms of a proud, inflexible spirit It was evident that
Viola hated the man to whom she owed her existence.

Thus had it come about that Ephraim was almost afraid to pronounce his
father's name. Neither did he care to allude to their mother before
Viola, for the memory of her death was too closely bound up with that
dark form behind the distant prison walls.

Let us now return to the night on which Ephraim opened the door to his
father. How had it come about? A thousand times Ephraim had thought
about his father's return--and now he durst not even kindle a light, to
look upon the long-estranged face. As silent as when he had come, Ascher
remained during the rest of the night; he had seated himself at the
window, and his arm was resting upon the very spot where formerly the
cage had stood. The bird had obtained its freedom, and was, no doubt, by
this time asleep, nestling amid the breeze-swept foliage of some wooded
glen. _He_ too had regained his liberty, but no sleep closed his eyes,
and yet he was in safe shelter, in the house of his children.

At length the day began to break. The sun was still hiding behind the
mountain-tops, but its earliest rays were already reflected upon the
window-panes. In the _Ghetto_ footsteps became audible; here and there
the grating noise of an opening street-door was heard, while from round
the corner resounded, ever and anon, the hammer of the watchman, calling
the people to morning service; for it was a Fast-day, which commenced at
sunrise.

At that moment Ascher raised himself from his chair, and quickly turned
away from the window. Ephraim was already by his side. "Father, dear
father!" he cried from the inmost depths of his heart, as he tried to
grasp the hand of the convict.

"Don't make such a noise," said the latter, casting a furtive glance in
the direction of the window, and speaking in the same mysterious whisper
in which he had asked for admittance into the house.

What a strange awakening it was to his son, when, in the gray
twili