“What does he say?” asked Benjamin, turning his eyes towards the matron.

“He says he is sorry to see you so bad,” said the matron, at a venture.

“But I shall be up soon, won’t I?  I can’t have Our Own delayed,” whispered Benjamin.

“Don’t worry about Our Own, my poor boy,” murmured the matron, pressing his forehead.  Moses respectfully made way for her.

“What says he?” he asked.  The matron repeated the words, but Moses could not understand the English.

Old Four-Eyes arrived—­a mild spectacled young man.  He looked at the doctor, and the doctor’s eye told him all.

“Ah, Mr. Coleman,” said Benjamin, with joyous huskiness, “you’ll see that Our Own comes out this week as usual.  Tell Jack Simmonds he must not forget to rule black lines around the page containing Bruno’s epitaph.  Bony-nose—­I—­I mean Mr. Bernstein, wrote it for us in dog-Latin.  Isn’t it a lark?  Thick, black lines, tell him.  He was a good dog and only bit one boy in his life.”

“All right.  I’ll see to it,” old Four-Eyes assured him with answering huskiness.

“What says he?” helplessly inquired Moses, addressing himself to the newcomer.

“Isn’t it a sad case, Mr. Coleman?” said the matron, in a low tone.  “They can’t understand each other.”

“You ought to keep an interpreter on the premises,” said the doctor, blowing his nose.  Coleman struggled with himself.  He knew the jargon to perfection, for his parents spoke it still, but he had always posed as being ignorant of it.

“Tell my father to go home, and not to bother; I’m all right—­only a little weak,” whispered Benjamin.

Coleman was deeply perturbed.  He was wondering whether he should plead guilty to a little knowledge, when a change of expression came over the wan face on the pillow.  The doctor came and felt the boy’s pulse.

“No, I don’t want to hear that Maaseh,” cried Benjamin.  “Tell me about the Sambatyon, father, which refuses to flow on Shabbos.”

He spoke Yiddish, grown a child again.  Moses’s face lit up with joy.  His eldest born had returned to intelligibility.  There was hope still then.  A sudden burst of sunshine flooded the room.  In London the sun would not break through the clouds for some hours.  Moses leaned over the pillow, his face working with blended emotions.  Me let a hot tear fall on his boy’s upturned face.

“Hush, hush, my little Benjamin, don’t cry,” said Benjamin, and began to sing in his mothers jargon: 

    “Sleep, little father, sleep,
    Thy father shall be a Rav,
    Thy mother shall bring little apples,
    Blessings on thy little head,”

Moses saw his dead Gittel lulling his boy to sleep.  Blinded by his tears, he did not see that they were falling thick upon the little white face.

“Nay, dry thy tears, I tell thee, my little Benjamin,” said Benjamin, in tones more tender and soothing, and launched into the strange wailing melody: