Isaac threw himself into his chair and sat with his chin in his hand.  The last few words had come in a dry, choking whisper—­as if they had been pumped from the depths of his heart.

Jack instinctively put out his hand and touched the Jew’s knee.

“Will you please forgive me, Mr. Cohen—­and will you please listen to me.  I won’t tell you a lie.  I did feel that way at first—­I do not now.  I will take the bonds, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart for them.  You will never know how much good they will do; I have hardly slept since I knew I had to get this money.  I am, perhaps, too tired to think straight, but you must do something for me—­you must make it right with my own conscience.  I want to sign something—­give you something as security.  I have only one thing in the world and that is some ore property my father left me in Maryland.  At present it is worthless and may always be, but still it is all I have.  Let me give you this.  If it turns out to be of value you can take out your loan with interest and give me the rest; if it does not, I will pay it back as I can; it may be ten years or it may be less, but I will pay it if I live.”

Isaac raised his head.  “Well, that is fair.”  His voice was again under control.  “Not for me—­but for you.  Yes, that is quite right for you to feel that way.  Next week you can bring in the papers.”  He picked up the bonds.  “Now put these in your inside pocket and look out for them as you cross the ferry.  Good-by.”

CHAPTER XXX

Jack strode out into the night, his mind in a whirl.  No sense of elation over the money had possession of him.  All his thoughts were on Isaac.  What manner of man was this Jew? he kept asking himself in a sort of stunned surprise, who could handle his shears like a journeyman, talk like a savant, spend money like a prince, and still keep the heart of a child?  Whoever heard of such an act of kindness; and so spontaneous and direct; reading his heart, sympathizing with him in his troubles—­as his friend would have done—­as his own father might have done.

And with the thought of Cohen’s supreme instantaneous response there followed with a rush of shame and self-humiliation that of his own narrow-mindedness, his mean prejudices, his hatred of the race, his questionings of Peter’s intimacy, and his frequent comments on their acquaintance—­the one thing he could never understand in his beloved mentor.  Again Isaac’s words rang in his ears.  “Is it because I am a Jew?  Who taught you such nonsense?  Not your Uncle Peter—­he loves me.  I love him.”  And with them arose the vision of the man stretched to his full height, the light of the lamp glinting on his moist forehead, his bead-like eyes flashing in the rush of his anger.

As to the sacrifice both he and Ruth had just made, and it was now final, this no longer troubled him.  He had already weighed for her every side of the question, taking especial pains to discuss each phase of the subject, even going so far as to disagree with MacFarlane’s opinion as to the worthlessness of the ore lands.  But the dear child had never wavered.