ELIAS had enjoyed his dinner at the Kochs’ very much. He had been greatly amused by it; but he had derived from it, besides, a pleasure that was deeper than mere amusement—the pleasure, namely, which comes of contact with people whom we feel to be thoroughly good and wholesome.

“They, with their strident voices, and vulgar manners, and untutored ways of thinking, are the sort of Jews that Gentiles judge the race by,” he reflected. “It is a comfort to know that underneath all their superficial roughness and unrefinement, the core is sound and sweet.”

It was with a sense of agreeable anticipation that, on the following Thursday evening, he started out to pay his digestion visit.

The maid-servant showed him into the parlor, and went off to announce him. Returning a moment later, she asked him to step down-stairs to the basement. There he was very cordially welcomed; and Mr. Koch explained, “I thought you’d rather join us down here, than have us come up to the show-room. (That’s my nick-name for the parlor; pretty good, hey?) Down here it’s more comfortable and homey.”

Mr. and Mrs. Blum smiled and swayed their heads at him; and Mrs. Koch, clasping Lester to her bosom with one hand, offered him the other.

“We don’t want to make company of you, Mr. Bacharach,” Mr. Koch went on; “and so, after my wife has put Lester to bed, you must come around with us to Winkum’s. We’re going to meet my brother-in-law and my sisters around there.”

“I shall be very happy,” Elias responded. “But Winkum’s—what is it? and where?”

“Oh, Winkum’s is Terrace Garden. I always call it Winkum’s, because a man named Winkum kept it when I first began to go there, years ago; and I’ve never got used to calling it by its new name. Force of habit.”

Mrs. Koch passed Lester around, and everybody kissed him good-night. Then she carried him from the room.

“Have a cigar?” asked Mr. Koch. “They’re genuine—Hoyo de Montereys.”

Elias took a cigar.

Mr. and Mrs. Blum were whispering together, on the sofa, over in the corner. He appeared to be urging her to do something, which she, with blushes and modest smiles, was protesting against.

“Come,” cried Mr. Koch; “it ain’t polite to whisper in company. What you people conspiring about?”

“I want her,” Mr. Blum answered, “to offer Elias Bacharach some of her cheese-cake; and she’s too baishful. Elias Bacharach, my wife every now and then, she make us a cheese-cake. You never taste any thing like it. It’s simply elegant. Vail, she make us one to-day; and I want her to give you a bite of it, just to show what she can do. But she—she’s just exactly as baishful as she was the day we got married; and that’s forty years ago, already.”

“Oh, Mrs. Blum,” Elias pleaded, “I shall really feel very much offended, if you don’t let me taste it. There’s nothing in the world I like so well as cheese-cake. Please don’t disappoint me.”

Blushing and giggling, the old lady got up, and said, “Ach, Gott! All right,” and waddled from the room. Presently she waddled back, and placed an enormous slice of cheese-cake, together with knife, fork, and napkin, upon the table. Then she sat down, and crossed her hands upon her stomach, and watched Elias as he ate. Between his mouthfuls, he kept uttering ejaculations of delight and wonder: marvelous! delicious! never tasted any thing equal to it in all my life! etc. She kept swaying her head and smiling. At the end, he vowed that the cheese-cake was a triumph of art, and confessed that antecedently he would not have believed such excellence attainable. Her husband demanded, “Didn’t I tell you so?” The old lady herself was overcome, and could only gurgle, “Gott! Du lieber, lieber Gott!”

By and by Mrs. Koch reappeared; and her husband called out, “Well, let’s start.”

At Terrace Garden they found Mr. and Mrs. Sternberg and Mrs. Morgenthau seated at a round table under an ailanthus tree.

“Why, where’s Tillie?” cried Mr. Koch.

“Oh, she had to stay at home to work,” her mother answered. “Preparing for some lessons she has to give to-morrow.”

The electric-lamps flared and sizzled. The band played tunes from comic operas. There were many people present, seated at similar tables, under similar trees, eating, drinking, smoking, chatting, listening to the music. Their countenances were mostly of the Semitic type. Every now and then a new party entered, from the café adjoining: an old gentleman and lady, a middle-aged gentleman and lady, and a troop of young folks of both sexes: three generations. Your Jew loves to take his pleasure with his family to share it. His boon companions are, as a rule, his father and mother, his wife and children. The waiters dashed like meteors hither and thither. One of them stopped before the table of our friends; and Mr. Koch, having determined the sentiment of the meeting, ordered “beers all around.”

“Vail,” observed Mr. Blum, “to drink dot beer, and hear dot music, and breathe dot fresh air, dot’s what I call solid comfort—hey?”

“Yes; and to see the people,” added Mr. Koch. “I don’t know as there’s any thing that I enjoy better than I do to sit around here of a summer night, and watch the people—see them arrive in squads, and then notice their ways of enjoying themselves after they’ve got settled. It’s quite a study; and every now and then you catch a glimpse into a regular romance. Now, Mr. Bacharach, you just take in that table over there. Can’t you imagine how that young fellow’s heart is thumping, as he whispers to her in that energetic manner? And see how she blushes, and fidgets with her fan, and pretends not to like it. And the old folks, her father and mother, of course—they sit placidly, with their backs turned, and have no attention for any thing but the beer and the music. I got a great mind to go up and nudge them. I have, as I’m alive.”

“Don’t you do nothing of the kind!” cried Mrs. Koch, indignantly. “The idea! How you like it if some busy-body come up, and nudge my papa, when you was making loaf to me?”

“Well, now, what I admire about that couple,” pursued Mr. Koch, “is their clever acting. They’re trying hard not to give themselves away, and not to let people see how sweet they feel. Unless a fellow watched them mighty close, and had been there himself, he might really be deceived by them, and think they were talking about nothing more interesting than the weather. But you and me, Mr. Bacharach, we’re shrewd, and we know better. She’s a daisy, and no mistake, ain’t she? And the young man—he looks like a respectable sort of a chap, too. Well, I guess I won’t interfere. I guess I’ll do as you say, Sarah. It may be a desirable match. What’s your advice, mother-inlaw?”

Mrs. Blum, quivering like a mass of jelly with suppressed mirth, responded, “Ach, Gott! Go ‘vay! You make me die!”

Mr. Blum, his face wreathed in smiles, exclaimed, “Washington, you got more wit about you than any man I know. It’s simply wonderful.”

It seemed as though the Kochs knew every body that came. At all events, every body that passed their table stopped, and said how-d’ye-do, shaking hands, and addressing Mr. Koch as Wash. His usual rejoinder was: “First-class. How’s yourself?”

“I’m sorry your daughter wasn’t able to be here, Mrs. Morgenthau,” Elias said.

“Oh, my daughter,” Mrs. Morgenthau returned, “she works like a horse. You never saw such a worker. It’s simply fearful. And such a good girl, Mr. Bacharach. Only nineteen years old, and earns more than a hundred dollars a month, and supports me and herself. Her uncle, my brother over there, he’s as generous with his money as if it was water; and he gave Tillie a magnificent education. But she’s bound to be self-supporting, and hasn’t cost him a cent for nearly a year. Of course, he gives her elegant presents every once in awhile; but she pays our expenses by her own work. She’s grand. She’s an angel.”

“You’re right there,” putin Mr. Koch. “Tillie’s all wool, from head to foot.&rdq............