“Where’s Esther?” he said.

“Esther,” grumbled the grandmother, catching the name.  “Esther is with Dutch Debby.  She’s always with her.  Dutch Debby pretends to love her like a mother—­and why?  Because she wants to be her mother.  She aims at marrying my Moses.  But not for us.  This time we shall marry the woman I select.  No person like that who knows as much about Judaism as the cow of Sunday, nor like Mrs. Simons, who coddles our little Sarah because she thinks my Moses will have her.  It’s plain as the eye in her head what she wants.  But the Widow Finkelstein is the woman we’re going to marry.  She is a true Jewess, shuts up her shop the moment Shabbos comes in, not works right into the Sabbath like so many, and goes to Shool even on Friday nights.  Look how she brought up her Avromkely, who intoned the whole Portion of the Law and the Prophets in Shool before he was six years old.  Besides she has money and has cast eyes upon him.”

The boy, seeing conversation was hopeless, murmured something inarticulate and ran down the stairs to find some traces of the intelligible members of his family.  Happily Bobby, remembering their former altercation, and determining to have the last word, barred Benjamin’s path with such pertinacity that Esther came out to quiet him and leapt into her brother’s arms with a great cry of joy, dropping the book she held full on Bobby’s nose.

“O Benjy—­Is it really you?  Oh, I am so glad.  I am so glad.  I knew you would come some day.  O Benjy!  Bobby, you bad dog, this is Benjy, my brother.  Debby, I’m going upstairs.  Benjamin’s come back.  Benjamin’s come back.”

“All right, dear,” Debby called out.  “Let me have a look at him soon.  Send me in Bobby if you’re going away.”  The words ended in a cough.

Esther hurriedly drove in Bobby, and then half led, half dragged Benjamin upstairs.  The grandmother had fallen asleep again and was snoring peacefully.

“Speak low, Benjy,” said Esther.  “Grandmother’s asleep.”

“All right, Esther.  I don’t want to wake her, I’m sure.  I was up here just now, and couldn’t make out a word she was jabbering.”

“I know.  She’s losing all her teeth, poor thing.”

“No, it, isn’t that.  She speaks that beastly Yiddish—­I made sure she’d have learned English by this time.  I hope you don’t speak it, Esther.”

“I must, Benjy.  You see father and grandmother never speak anything else at home, and only know a few words of English.  But I don’t let the children speak it except to them.  You should hear little Sarah speak English.  It’s beautiful.  Only when she cries she says ‘Woe is me’ in Yiddish.  I have had to slap her for it—­but that makes her cry ’Woe is me’ all the more.  Oh, how nice you look, Benjy, with your white collar, just like the pictures of little Lord Launceston in the Fourth Standard Reader.  I wish I could show you to the girls!  Oh, my, what’ll Solomon say when he sees you!  He’s always wearing his corduroys away at the knees.”