Belcovitch, or rather Kosminski, was the only surviving son of a widow.  It was curious, and suggestive of some grim law of heredity, that his parents’ elder children had died off as rapidly as his own, and that his life had been preserved by some such expedient as Alte’s.  Only, in his case the Rabbi consulted had advised his father to go into the woods and call his new-born son by the name of the first animal that he saw.  This was why the future sweater was named Bear.  To the death of his brothers and sisters, Bear owed his exemption from military service.  He grew up to be a stalwart, well-set-up young baker, a loss to the Russian army.

Bear went out in the market-place one fine day and saw Chayah in maiden ringlets.  She was a slim, graceful little thing, with nothing obviously odd about the legs, and was buying onions.  Her back was towards him, but in another moment she turned her head and Bear’s.  As he caught the sparkle of her eye, he felt that without her life were worse than the conscription.  Without delay, he made inquiries about the fair young vision, and finding its respectability unimpeachable, he sent a Shadchan to propose to her, and they were affianced:  Chayah’s father undertaking to give a dowry of two hundred gulden.  Unfortunately, he died suddenly in the attempt to amass them, and Chayah was left an orphan.  The two hundred gulden were nowhere to be found.  Tears rained down both Chayah’s cheeks, on the one side for the loss of her father, on the other for the prospective loss of a husband.  The Rabbi was full of tender sympathy.  He bade Bear come to the dead man’s chamber.  The venerable white-bearded corpse lay on the bed, swathed in shroud, and Talith or praying-shawl.

“Bear,” he said, “thou knowest that I saved thy life.”

“Nay,” said Bear, “indeed, I know not that.”

“Yea, of a surety,” said the Rabbi.  “Thy mother hath not told thee, but all thy brothers and sisters perished, and, lo! thou alone art preserved!  It was I that called thee a beast.”

Bear bowed his head in grateful silence.

“Bear,” said the Rabbi, “thou didst contract to wed this dead man’s daughter, and he did contract to pay over to thee two hundred gulden.’’

“Truth.” replied Bear.

“Bear,” said the Rabbi, “there are no two hundred gulden.”

A shadow flitted across Bear’s face, but he said nothing.

“Bear,” said the Rabbi again, “there are not two gulden.”

Bear did not move.

“Bear,” said the Rabbi, “leave thou my side, and go over to the other side of the bed, facing me.”

So Bear left his side and went over to the other side of the bed facing him.

“Bear,” said the Rabbi, “give me thy right hand.”

The Rabbi stretched his own right hand across the bed, but Bear kept his obstinately behind his back.

“Bear,” repeated the Rabbi, in tones of more penetrating solemnity, “give me thy right hand.”