Years fled by.  In her arms she carried another child.  It was a boy.  The father’s joy was great.  The child inherited its mother’s beauty.  Like its sister, it grew in health and strength.  The noblest, richest mother, they said, might be proud of such children!  And Veile was proud, no doubt, but this never passed her lips.  She remained silent about things which mothers in their joy often cannot find words enough to express.  And although her face many times lighted up with beaming smiles, yet she never renounced the habitual silence imposed upon her.

The idea that the slightest dereliction of her penance would be accompanied with a curse upon her children may have impressed itself upon her mind.  Mothers will understand better than other persons what this mother suffered from her penalty of silence.

Thus a part of those years sped away which we are wont to call the best.  She still flourished in her wonderful beauty.  Her maiden daughter was beside her, like the bud beside the full-blown rose.  Suitors were already present from far and near, who passed in review before the beautiful girl.  The most of them were excellent young men, and any mother might have been proud in having her own daughter sought by such.  Even then Veile did not undo her penance.  Those busy times of intercourse which keep mothers engaged in presenting the superiorities of their daughters in the best light were not allowed her.  The choice of one of the most favored suitors was made.  Never before did any couple in the gasse equal this in beauty and grace.  A few weeks before the appointed time for the wedding a malignant disease stole on, spreading sorrow and anxiety over the greater part of the land.  Young girls were principally its victims.  It seemed to pass scornfully over the aged and infirm.  Veile’s daughter was also laid hold upon by it.  Before three days had passed there was a corpse in the house—­the bride!

Even then Veile did not forget her penance.  When they bore away the corpse to the “good place,” she did utter a cry of anguish which long after echoed in the ears of the people; she did wring her hands in despair, but no one heard a word of complaint.  Her lips seemed dumb forever.  It was then, when she was seated on the low stool in the seven days of mourning, that the rabbi came to her, to bring to her the usual consolation for the dead.  But he did not speak with her.  He addressed words only to her husband.  She herself dared not look up.  Only when he turned to go did she lift her eyes.  They, in turn, met the eyes of the rabbi, but he departed without a farewell.

After her daughter’s death Veile was completely broken down.  Even that which at her time of life is still called beauty had faded away within a few days.  Her cheeks had become hollow, her hair gray.  Visitors wondered how she could endure such a shock, how body and spirit could hold together.  They did not know that that silence was an iron fetter firmly imprisoning the slumbering spirits.  She had a son, moreover, to whom, as to something last and dearest, her whole being still clung.