When it became known that Aaron was about to leave the quiet resting-place in which the last few years had been passed, and in which he had enjoyed peace and prosperity, a general feeling of regret was expressed, and efforts were made to induce him to change his resolution. Coming among them a stranger, a foreigner, and an alien in religion, he had won for himself the lasting esteem of all classes of the community. The village was now an important centre, its trade was in a flourishing condition, and its population had largely increased; as a natural consequence, property had risen in value, and the old residents were growing rich. It was ungrudgingly acknowledged that all this was due to Aaron Cohen's enterprise and to the integrity of his character. The well-to-do and the poor alike deplored the impending loss, and united in their appeals to him to remain; but they were unsuccessful. There was in Aaron a latent ambition, of which he himself was scarcely aware, to move in a larger sphere, and to play his part in life among his own people. His intention had been at first to remain in the pretty French village only long enough to benefit Rachel's health, and had it not been for the chance that threw him and the engineer together, and which opened up enterprises which had led to such fortunate results, he would have fulfilled this intention and have selected some populous city in England to pursue his career. One venture had led to another, and the success which had attended them was a sufficient inducement to tarry. But now that the partnership was at an end the incentive was gone, and he was not sorry that he was in a certain sense compelled to return to his native land. One thing in his life in the village had weighed heavily upon him. There was no established synagogue in which he and his family could worship, and, as we have seen, it was in his own home that he carried out all the ceremonials of his religion. Much as Aaron had reason to be grateful for, he yearned to follow the practices of his religion among a larger body of his co-religionists, to have the honour of taking the sacred scroll from the ark, to hear the chazan's voice from the pulpit and the melodious chant of the choir, followed by the deep responses of the congregation. He had an instinctive leaning to movement and colour. He loved the peace of his home; it was his ark of rest; but he loved also the bustle and turmoil of life. He was essentially an administrator, and fitted by nature for the control and direction of large bodies of men. Had he been single he would doubtless have migrated to one of the new colonies which perennially spring up under British rule, and have taken a prominent part in its growth and development. It is greatly due to Jewish spirit and enterprise that these new countries thrive and flourish so rapidly.

There was another consideration. Aaron wished his son Joseph to grow up amid his co-religionists, to mix with them, to become familiar with their ways, so that he might be fixed firmly in the faith of his forefathers. There was no Jewish school in the village in which the lad could be educated. He looked forward to the future. Joseph would become a man, and in this village there were limitations and restrictions which were not favourable to the formation of strong character. Here was a young mind to be trained; the more comprehensive the surroundings the better the chance of worldly advancement. He discussed these matters with Rachel.

"Yes," she said, "let us go. But I shall never forget the happy years we have passed here."

"Nor I," said Aaron. "Honour and good fortune have attended us. May a blessing rest upon the village and all the dwellers therein!"

Then Rachel spoke of her poor and of her regret at leaving them.

"We will bear them in remembrance," said Aaron, "and before we bid them, farewell something can be done to place them in permanent comfort."

Much was done by Rachel and himself. For some time past he had bestowed a great part of his benefactions in such a manner that those whom he befriended were ignorant of the source from which the good flowed. In order that this should be carried out as he wished he had to seek an agent; looking around he made his selection, and asked the curé of the village to be his almoner, explaining that he did not wish it to be known that the money came from him. The curé, much surprised, accepted the office; Aaron was grievously disturbing his opinion of the heretic. After the meeting with Rachel, which has been described in the previous chapter, he had visited her home with the laudable desire of converting the family to the true faith, and had found himself confronted with peculiar difficulties. He strove to draw them into argument, but in a theological sense they slipped through his fingers. Aaron's course in this respect was premeditated, Rachel's was unconsciously pursued. She listened to all he said, and smilingly acquiesced in his declaration that there was only one road open to heaven's gates.

"It is the road of right-doing, father," she said, "the road of kindness, of doing unto others as you would they should do unto you, of dispensing out of your store, whether it be abundant or not, what you can spare to relieve the unfortunate. You are right, father; there is only one road."

By her sweetness and charity, by her practical sympathy with the suffering, she cut the ground from under his feet. He spoke of the saints, and she said they were good men and women, and were receiving their reward. In a word, she took the strength and subtlety out of him, and he yielded with sighs of regret and admiration. With Aaron he was more trenchant, and quite as unsuccessful. Many of Aaron's humorous observations made the good priest laugh in spite of himself, and the pearls of wisdom which fell from the Jew's lips crumbled his arguments to dust. There was no scoffing or irreverence on Aaron's part; he simply parried the thrusts with a wisdom and humanity deeper and truer than those of which his antagonist could boast.

"My son," said the curé, "would you not make me a Jew if it were in your power?"

"No," replied Aaron, "we do not proselytise, and even if we did you are too good a Christian for me to wish to make you a Jew."

This was one of the puzzling remarks which caused the curé to ponder, and which dwelt long in his mind; sometimes he thought that Aaron was a man of deep subtlety, sometimes that he was a man of great simplicity, but whether subtle or simple he felt it impossible to withhold a full measure of respect from one whose eternal lot he sighed to think was perdition and everlasting torment. That sincerity was the true test of faith, as Aaron declared, he would not admit; there could be no sincerity in a faith that was false, there could be no sincerity if you did not believe as he believed. Nevertheless, he had an uncomfortable impression that he was being continually worsted in the peaceful war of words in which they invariably engaged when they came together.

As Aaron was not to be turned from his resolution to leave the country, the villagers took steps to show their respect for him. Public meetings were held, which were attended by many persons from surrounding districts, and there was a banquet, of which Aaron did not partake, the food not being cooked according to the Jewish formula. He contented himself with fruit and bread, and made a good and sufficient meal. Speeches were made in his honour, and he was held up as an example to old and young. His response was in admirable taste. He said that the years he had spent among them were the happiest in his life, and that it was with true regret he found himself compelled to leave the village. He spoke of his first coming among them with a beloved wife in a delicate state of health, who had grown well and strong in the beautiful spot. It was not alone the sweet air, he said, which had brought the blessing of health to her; the bond of sympathy which had been established between her and her neighbours had been as a spiritual medicine to her, which had given life a value of which it would otherwise have been deprived. It was not so much the material reward of our labours that conferred happiness upon us as the feeling that we were passing our days among friends who always had a smile and a pleasant greeting for us. Riches were perishable, kindly remembrances immortal. The lessons of life were to be learned from the performance of simple acts of duty; for he regarded it as a duty to so conduct ourselves as to make our presence welcome, and agreeable to those with whom we were in daily association. As to the kind things that had been said of him, he felt that he was scarcely worthy of them. "There is," he said, "a leaven of human selfishness in all that we do; and the little I have, with the blessing of God, been enabled to do has conferred upon me a much greater pleasure than it could possibly have conferred upon others. To you and to my residence among you I owe all my good fortune, to you and to my residence among you I owe my dear wife's restoration to health; and it would be ingratitude indeed did I not endeavour to make some return for the good you have showered upon me. I shall never forget you, nor will my wife forget you; in our native land we shall constantly recall the happy years we spent in this pleasant village, and we shall constantly pray that peace and prosperity may never desert you.&q............