Up a little lane at the end of the street he found the entrance to a low square hall.  There was a small ante-room to the place of service, and in this a dull-looking man was seated polishing a candlestick.  He was a crossing-sweeper by trade and a friend of the curate.

‘Well, Issachar; so you’ve got your synagogue open again!’

The man Issachar made some sound meant for a response, but not intelligible.

‘How many Jews will there be in the town?’

‘Twenty that are heads of families, and two grown youths,’ said Issachar.

‘That’s enough to keep up a service, for some of them will be rich?’

‘Some are very rich,’ said Issachar, wrinkling his face with satisfaction when he said the words.

‘Then how is it you don’t always keep up the service?’

But Issachar had no explanation to give.  He polished his candlestick the more vigorously, and related at some length what he knew of the present reader, which was, in fact, nothing, except that he was a foreigner and had only offered to read while he was visiting the town.

‘I have come for the service,’ said the curate.

‘Better not,’ said Issachar; ’it’s short to-night, and there’ll not be many.’

The curate answered by opening the inner door and entering.  There were some high pews up and down the sides of the room.  There was a curtain at the farther end and a reading desk in the centre, both of which were enclosed in a railing ornamented by brass knobs, and in which were set high posts supporting gas-lamps, nine in all, which were lit, either for heat or ceremony, and turned down to a subdued light.  The evening light entered through the domed roof.  Hebrew texts which the curate could not decipher were painted on the dark walls.  He took off his hat reverently and sat down.  There was no one there.  He felt very much surprised at finding himself alone.  To his impressible nervous nature it seemed that he had suddenly entered a place far removed in time and space from the every-day life with which he was so familiar.  He sat a long time; it was cold, and the evening light grew dim, and yet no one came.  Issachar entered now and then, and made brief remarks about sundry things as he gave additional polish to the knobs on the railing, but he always went out again.

At length a side door opened and the reader came in from his vestry.  He had apparently waited in hope of a congregation, but now came in to perform his duty without their aid.  Perhaps he was not so much disappointed as the curate was.  It would have been very difficult to tell from looking at him what his emotions were.  He was a stout large man with a coarse brown beard.  There was little to be seen of his face but the hair upon it, and one gathered the suggestion, although it was hard to know from what, that the man and his beard were not as clean as might be.  He wore a black gown and an ordinary high silk hat, although pushed much farther back on