“What do you think, Pesach,” said Becky, as soon as she could get at her prospective brother-in-law through the barriers of congratulatory countrymen.  “The stuff that came through there”—­she pointed to the discolored fragment of ceiling—­“was soup.  That silly little Esther spilt all she got from the kitchen.”

“Achi-nebbich, poor little thing,” cried Mrs. Kosminski, who was in a tender mood, “very likely it hungers them sore upstairs.  The father is out of work.”

“Knowest thou what, mother,” put in Fanny.  “Suppose we give them our soup.  Aunt Leah has just fetched it for us.  Have we not a special supper to-night?”

“But father?” murmured the little woman dubiously.

“Oh, he won’t notice it.  I don’t think he knows the soup kitchen opens to-night.  Let me, mother.”

And Fanny, letting Pesach’s hand go, slipped out to the room that served as a kitchen, and bore the still-steaming pot upstairs.  Pesach, who had pursued her, followed with some hunks of bread and a piece of lighted candle, which, while intended only to illumine the journey, came in handy at the terminus.  And the festive company grinned and winked when the pair disappeared, and made jocular quotations from the Old Testament and the Rabbis.  But the lovers did not kiss when they came out of the garret of the Ansells; their eyes were wet, and they went softly downstairs hand in hand, feeling linked by a deeper love than before.

Thus did Providence hand over the soup the Belcovitches took from old habit to a more necessitous quarter, and demonstrate in double sense that Charity never faileth.  Nor was this the only mulct which Providence exacted from the happy father, for later on a townsman of his appeared on the scene in a long capote, and with a grimy woe-begone expression.  He was a “greener” of the greenest order, having landed at the docks only a few hours ago, bringing over with him a great deal of luggage in the shape of faith in God, and in the auriferous character of London pavements.  On arriving in England, he gave a casual glance at the metropolis and demanded to be directed to a synagogue wherein to shake himself after the journey.  His devotions over, he tracked out Mr. Kosminski, whose address on a much-creased bit of paper had been his talisman of hope during the voyage.  In his native town, where the Jews groaned beneath divers and sore oppressions, the fame of Kosminski, the pioneer, the Croesus, was a legend.  Mr. Kosminski was prepared for these contingencies.  He went to his bedroom, dragged out a heavy wooden chest from under the bed, unlocked it and plunged his hand into a large dirty linen bag, full of coins.  The instinct of generosity which was upon him made him count out forty-eight of them.  He bore them to the “greener” in over-brimming palms and the foreigner, unconscious how much he owed to the felicitous coincidence of his visit with Fanny’s betrothal, saw fortune visibly within his grasp.  He went out, his heart bursting with gratitude, his pocket with four dozen farthings.  They took him in and gave him hot soup at a Poor Jews’ Shelter, whither his townsman had directed him.  Kosminski returned to the banqueting room, thrilling from head to foot with the approval of his conscience.  He patted Becky’s curly head and said: