Generations of saints and scholars linked Reb Shemuel with the marvels of Sinai.  The infinite network of ceremonial never hampered his soul; it was his joyous privilege to obey his Father in all things and like the king who offered to reward the man who invented a new pleasure, he was ready to embrace the sage who could deduce a new commandment.  He rose at four every morning to study, and snatched every odd moment he could during the day.  Rabbi Meir, that ancient ethical teacher, wrote:  “Whosoever labors in the Torah for its own sake, the whole world is indebted to him; he is called friend, beloved, a lover of the All-present, a lover of mankind; it clothes him in meekness and reverence; it fits him to become just, pious, upright and faithful; he becomes modest, long-suffering and forgiving of insult.”

Reb Shemuel would have been scandalized if any one had applied these words to him.

At about eleven o’clock Hannah came into the room, an open letter in her hand.

“Father,” she said, “I have just had a letter from Samuel Levine.”

“Your husband?” he said, looking up with a smile.

“My husband,” she replied, with a fainter smile.

“And what does he say?”

“It isn’t a very serious letter; he only wants to reassure me that he is coming back by Sunday week to be divorced.”

“All right; tell him it shall be done at cost price,” he said, with the foreign accent that made him somehow seem more lovable to his daughter when he spoke English.  “He shall only be charged for the scribe.”

“He’ll take that for granted,” Hannah replied.  “Fathers are expected to do these little things for their own children.  But how much nicer it would be if you could give me the Gett yourself.”

“I would marry you with pleasure,” said Reb Shemuel, “but divorce is another matter.  The Din has too much regard for a father’s feelings to allow that.”

“And you really think I am Sam Levine’s wife?”

“How many times shall I tell you?  Some authorities do take the intention into account, but the letter of the law is clearly against you.  It is far safer to be formally divorced.”

“Then if he were to die—­”

“Save us and grant us peace,” interrupted the Reb in horror.

“I should be his widow.”

“Yes, I suppose you would.  But what Narrischkeit!  Why should he die?  It isn’t as if you were really married to him,” said the Reb, his eye twinkling.

“But isn’t it all absurd, father?”

“Do not talk so,” said Reb Shemuel, resuming his gravity.  “Is it absurd that you should be scorched if you play with fire?”

Hannah did not reply to the question.

“You never told me how you got on at Manchester,” she said.  “Did you settle the dispute satisfactorily?”

“Oh, yes,” said the Reb; “but it was very difficult.  Both parties were so envenomed, and it seems that the feud has been going on in the congregation ever since the Day of Atonement, when the minister refused to blow the Shofar three minutes too early, as the President requested.  The Treasurer sided with the minister, and there has almost been a split.”