It is two years after the mournful event recorded in our last chapter that we recommence our simple narrative. When time and prayer had softened the first deep affliction, the widow and her family indeed proved the fulfilment of that blessed promise, “Leave thy fatherless children to me, and I will keep them alive, and let thy widows trust in me;” for they prospered and were happy. Affliction, either of failing health in those compelled to labour, or in want of employment, was kept far from them. The widow, indeed, herself often suffered; but she thanked God, in the midst even of pain, as she compared the blessings of her lot with those of others. Little Ruth, too, from her affliction and very delicate health, was often an object of anxiety; but so tenderly was she beloved, that anxiety was scarcely pain in the delight her presence ever caused. Sweet-tempered, loving, and joyous, with a voice of song like a bird’s, and a laugh of child-like glee, and yet such strong affections, such deep reverence for all things holy, that who might grieve for her afflictions when she was so happy, so gratified herself? She was the star of that lowly little dwelling, for sorrow, or discord, or care could not come near her.

Joseph, her twin brother, had attracted the notice of a respectable jeweller, who, though he could not take the boy into his house as a regular apprentice till he was thirteen, not only employed him several hours in the day in cleaning jewels, etc., but allowed him small wages—an act of real benevolence, felt by the widow as an especial blessing, rendered perhaps the dearer from the fact that it was the high character her husband had borne which gave his youngest son so responsible an office, intrusted as it was to none but the strictly honest.

Simeon, now nearly seventeen, was with the same watchmaker who had formerly brought forward his father. It was not a trade he liked; nay, the delicate machinery required was peculiarly annoying to him, but it was the only opening for him, and he conquered his disinclination. He had long since made a vow to use his every effort to restore his parents to the comfortable estate from which they had unfortunately fallen, and no thought of himself or his own wishes should interfere with its accomplishment. Persevering and resolute, he took a good heart with him to the business; and though his first attempts were awkward, and the laughter of his companions most discouraging, the praise of his master and his own conscience urged him on, and before the two years which we have passed over had elapsed, he had conquered every difficulty, and promised in time to be quite as good a workman as his father.

The extent of suffering which his father’s death had been to him no one knew, but he had felt at first as if he could not rouse himself again. It was useless to struggle on; for the beloved parent, for whose sake he had made this solemn vow, was gone for ever. His mother indeed was spared him; but much as he loved and reverenced her, his father had been, if possible, first in his affections. Perhaps it was that his own feelings, his own character, gave him a clue to all that his father had done and endured. He had all his honesty and honour, all his energy, and love for his ancient faith. One difference there was: Perez could bear with, nay, love all mankind—could find excuse for the erring, even for the apostate, much as he abhorred the deed; could believe in the sincerity and piety of others, though their faith differed from his own; but Simeon could not feel this. Often, even in his childhood, his father had to reprove him for prejudice; and as he grew older, his hatred against all those who left the faith, or united themselves in any way with other than Israelites, continued violent. Prejudice is almost the only feeling which reason cannot conquer—religion may, and Simeon was truly and sincerely religious; but he loved his faith better than he loved his God. He would have started and denied it, had any one told him so, and declared it was impossible—one feeling could not be distinct or divided from the other; yet so it was. An earnest and heartfelt love of God can never permit an emotion so violent as hatred to any of God’s creatures. It is no test of our own sincerity to condemn or disbelieve in that of others; and those who do—who prejudiced and violent against all who differ from them—may be, no doubt are, sincerely religious and well intentioned, but they love their faith better than they love their God.

These peculiar feelings occasioned a degree of coldness in Simeon’s sentiments towards his brother Reuben, of whom we have little more to say than we know already.

The death of his father was indeed a fearful shock; yet, from a few words which fell from him during some of his interviews with Sarah, she fancied that he almost rejoiced that he was bound by no promise to the dying. In the midst of repentant agony that he had arrived too late for his parent’s blessing, he would break off with a half shudder, and mutter, “If he had spoken that, he might have spoken more, and I could not have disobeyed him on his death-bed. Whatever he bade me promise I must have promised; and then, then, after a few brief months, been perjured. Oh, my father, my father! why is it my fate to be the wretch I am?”

This grief was violent, but it did not produce the good effect which his parents had so fondly hoped. Even in the days of mourning, it was evident that the peculiar forms which his faith enjoined, as the son of the deceased, chafed and irritated him; and had it not been for the deep, silent suffering of his mother, which he could not bear to increase, he would have neglected them altogether. When he mixed with the world again, he followed his own course and his own will, scarcely ever mixing with those of his own race, but seeking, and at last finding employment with the stranger. He had excellent abilities; and from his having received a better education than most youths of his race, obtained at length a lucrative situation in an establishment which, trading to many different parts of the British Isles, often required an active agent to travel for them. His peculiar creed had been at first against him; but when his abilities were put to the proof, and it was discovered he was in truth only nominally a Jew, that he cared not to sacrifice the Sabbath, and that no part of his religion was permitted to interfere with his employments, his services were accepted and well paid.

Had then Reuben Perez, the beloved and cherished son of such good and pious parents, indeed deserted the religion of his forefathers? Not in semblance, for there were times when he still visited the synagogue; and as he did so, he was by many still conceived a good Jew. The flagrant follies of his youth had subsided; he was no longer wild, wavering, and extravagant. Not a word could be spoken against his moral principles; his public, even his domestic conduct was unexceptionable, and therefore he bore a high character in the estimation alike of the Jewish and Christian world. What cause had his mother, then, for the grief and pain which swelled her heart almost to bursting, when she thought upon her firstborn? Alas! it was because she felt there was One who saw deeper than the world—One, between whom and himself Reuben had raised up a dark barrier of wrath—One who loved him, erring and sinful as he was, with an immeasurable love, but whose deep love was rejected and abused—even his God, that God who had been the Saviour of his forefathers through so many thousand ages. The mother would have preferred seeing him poor, dependent, obtaining but his daily bread, yet faithful to his faith and to his God, than prosperous, courted, and an alien.

The brothers seldom met, and therefore Simeon was ignorant how powerfully coldness was creeping over his affections for Reuben; how, in violently condemning his indifference and union with the stranger, he was rendering the observance of his promise to his dying father (to bear with and love his brother) a matter of difficulty and pain. Faithful and earnest himself, he could not understand a want of earnestness and fidelity in others. But, however the world might flatter and appear to honour his exemplary moral conduct, one truth it is our duty to record—Reuben was not happy. It was not the mere fancy of his mother and cousin, it was truth; they knew not wherefore—for if he neglected and contemned his religion, he could scarcely feel the want of it—but that he was unhappy, perhaps was the secret cause which held the love of his mother and Sarah so immovably enchained, bidding them hope sometimes in the very midst of gloom.

Of the female members of Perez’ family we have little to remark. Leah’s good conduct had not only made her the favourite of her mistress, but her liveliness and happy temper had actually triumphed over the sometimes harsh disposition she had at first to encounter. There was no withstanding her good humour. She had the happy knack of making people good friends with themselves, as well as with each other, and was so happy herself, that, except when she thought of her dear father, and wished that he could but see her and hear her sing over her work, sorrow was unknown. Every Friday evening she went home to remain till the Sunday morning, and that was superlative enjoyment, not only to herself, for her mother looked to the visit of her merry, affectionate daughter as a source of pure feeling, delight, and recreation.

In Sarah there was no change. Still pensive, modest, and industrious, she continued quietly to retain the most devoted affections of her relatives, and the goodwill and respect of her employers. Of her own individual feelings we must not now speak, save to say that few even of her domestic circle imagined how strong and deep was the under-current of character which her quiet mien concealed.

It was the evening of the Sabbath, and the widow and her daughters were assembled in their pretty little parlour. Simeon and Joseph were not yet returned from synagogue. Reuben, alas! was seldom there on the Sabbath eve. The table was covered with a cloth, which, though not of the finest description, was white as the driven snow; and the Sabbath lamp was lighted, for in their greatest poverty this ceremony had never been omitted. When they had no lamp, and could not have afforded oil, they burnt a wax candle, frequently depriving themselves of some week-day necessary to procure this indulgence. The first earnings of Sarah, Leah, and Simeon had been used to repurchase the ancient Sabbath lamp, the heirloom in their family for many generations. It was silver and very antique, and by a strange chance had escaped the fire, which rendered perhaps the sale of it the more painful to Perez. His gratification on beholding it again had amply repaid his affectionate children. Never being used but on Sabbaths, it seemed to partake of the sanctity of that holy day.

Bread and salt were also upon the table, and the large Bible and its attendant prayer-books there also, open, as if they had just been used. Ruth had plucked some sweet flowers just before Sabbath, and arranged them tastefully in a china cup, and Leah had playfully removed a sprig of rosebuds and wreathed it in the long glossy curls which hung round Ruth’s sweet face and over her shoulders. The dresses of all were neat and clean, for they loved to make a distinction between the seventh day and the six days of labour.

“If we were about to pass a day in the presence of an earthly sovereign, my dear children,” the widow had often been wont to say, “should we not deserve to be excluded if we appeared rudely and slovenly and dirtily attired? You think we could not possibly do so; it would not only be such marked disrespect, but we should not be admitted. How, then, dare we seek the presence of our heavenly sovereign in such rude and sinful disarray? The seventh day is His day. He calls upon us to throw aside all worldly thoughts and cares, and come to Him, and give our thoughts and hearts to His holy service. If an earthly king so called us, how anxious should we be to accept the invitation—shall we do less for God?”

“But, dear mother,” Leah would answer, “will God regard that? Is He not too holy, too far removed from us, too pure to mark such little things?”

“Nothing is too small for Him to remark, if done in love and faith, my child. The heart anxious to mark the Sabbath by increase of cleanliness and neatness in personal attire, as well as household arrangements, must conceive it God’s own day, and observing it as such will receive His blessing. It is not the act of dressing or the dress He observes. He only marks it as a proof His holy day is welcomed with love and rejoicing, as He commanded; and the smallest offering of OBEDIENCE is acceptable to Him.”

“But I have heard you remark with regret, mother, that some of our neighbours are dressed so very smart on Sabbath. If it be to mark the holy difference between that day and the others, why should you regret it?”

“Because, love, there ought to be moderation in all things, and when I see very smart showy dresses, which, if not in material, in appearance are much too fine and smart for our station, I fear it is less a religious than a worldly feeling which dictates them. Have you not noticed that those who dress so gaily generally spend their Sabbath in walking about the streets and exchanging visits, conversing, of course, on the most frivolous topics? I do not think this the proper method of spending our Sabbath day, and therefore I regret to see them devote so much time and thought on mere outward decoration, which is so widely different from obedience to their God.”

Leah thought of this little conversation many times. From thoughtlessness and dislike to trouble, she had hitherto been rather negligent than otherwise in her dress; then going to a contrary extreme, felt very much inclined to imitate some young companions in their finery. Her mother’s word saved her from the one, and their subsequent misfortunes effectually from the other, as all her earnings were hoarded for one holy purpose, simply to assist her parents; and she would have thought it sacrilege to have spent any portion on herself, except on things which she absolutely needed. But so neat and clean was she invariably in her dress, that her mistress always sent her to receive orders, and, trifling as appearance may seem, it repeatedly gained customers.

“They are coming—I hear their footsteps,” said the little Ruth, springing up to open the parlour door. “Oh! I do so love the Sabbath eve, for it brings us all together again so happily.”

“Is it only Simeon and Joseph, my child?” inquired the widow, mournfully; for there was one expectation on her heart and that of Sarah, which, alas! was seldom to be fulfilled.

Ruth listened attentively.

“Only they, mother!” she said, checking her voice of glee, and returning to her mother’s side, for she knew the cause of that saddened tone, and she laid her little head caressingly on her mother’s breast.

Simeon and Joseph at that moment entered, and each advancing, bent lowly before their mother, who, laying her hand upon each dear head, blessed them in a voice faltering from its emotion, and kissed them both. The kiss of love and peace went round, and gaily the brothers and sisters drew round the table, which Sarah’s provident love speedily covered with the welcome evening meal. The happy laugh and affectionate interchange of the individual cares and pleasures, vexations and enjoyments of the past week, occupied them delightfully during tea. Sarah had to tell of a new kind of work which had diversified her usual employment, and been most successful; a kind of wadded slipper, which, after many trials, she had completed to her satisfaction, in the intervals of other work; and which not only sold well, but gave her dear aunt an occupation which she could accomplish without pain, in wadding and binding the silk. Leah told of a pretty dress and bonnet which her mistress had presented to her, in token of her approbation of her steadiness in refusing to accompany her companions to some place of amusement, which, from its respectability being doubted, she knew her mother would not approve; and, by staying at home, enabled Mrs. Magnus to finish an expensive order a day sooner than had been expected, and so gained her a new and wealthy customer.

“Dearest mother, you told me how to resist temptation even in trifles,” continued the affectionate girl, with tears of feeling in her bright dark eyes. “You taught me from my earliest childhood there was purer and more lasting pleasure in conquering my own wishes than any doubtful recreation could bestow; and that in that inward pleasure our heavenly Father’s approval was made manifest. And so, you see, though you were not near me and I could not, as I wished, ask your advice and permission, it was you who enabled me to conquer myself, and resist this temptation. I did want to go, and felt very, very lonely when all went; but when Mrs. Magnus thanked me for enabling her to give so much satisfaction, and said I had gained her a new customer, oh, no circus or play could have given me such happiness as that; and it was all through you, mother, and so I told her.”

The happy mother smiled on her animated girl; but her heart did not glorify itself, it thanked God that her early efforts had been so blessed. “And Ruth!” some of our readers may exclaim, “poor blind Ruth, what can she have to say?” And we answer, happy little Ruth had much of industry and enjoyment to dilate on. The straw she had plaited, the hymns she had learnt through Sarah’s kindly teaching, the dead leaves she had plucked from the shrubs and flowers, for so delicate had her sense of touch become, she could follow this occupation in perfect security to the plants, distinguishing the dead and dying from the perfect leaves at a touch. Then she told of a poor little orphan beggar girl, whom Sarah had one day brought in cold and crying, because she had been begging all day and had received nothing, and she knew she should be beaten when she went home; and how she had said she hated begging; but she could do nothing else; and little Ruth had asked her if she would like to sell flowers; and poor Mary had told her she should like it very very much, but she could not get any. She knew no one who would let her take them from the garden. How she (Ruth) had promised to make her some little nosegays, and Sarah and her mother said they would make her some little nick-nacks, pincushions, and housewives to put with her flowers.

“Ah, we made her so happy!” continued the child, clasping her little hands in delight. “Mother gave her some of my old things, which were quite good to her, and it is quite a pleasure to me to make her nosegays, and feel they give her a few pence better than begging; and Sarah is going to try if I can make her some little fancy things when winter comes. You know I am quite rich to her, for God has given me a home, and such a kind mother, and dear brothers and sisters, and she has neither home nor mother, nor any one to love her. Poor, poor Mary! and then, too, some say the Christians do not like the Jews, and I know she will and does like us, and she may make others of her people like us too.”

“Ruth,” said her brother Simeon, in a very strange husky voice, “Ruth, darling, come here and kiss me. I wish you would make me as good as you.”

“As good!” exclaimed the child, springing on his knee, and throwing her arms round his neck; “dear naughty Simeon, to say such a thing. How much more you can do than I. Do you not work so very much, that dear mother sometimes fears for your health? and it is all for us, to help to support us, mother and me, because we cannot work for ourselves. Ah, I am blind, and can only do little things, and try to make every one happy, that they may love me; but I am only a little girl; I cannot be as good as you.”

“Ruth, darling, I could not do as you have done. I cannot love and serve those who hate and persecute us as Israelites.”

“They do not persecute us now, brother. Sarah told me sad tales of what we suffered once; but God was angry with us then, and he made the nations punish us. But now, if they still dislike us we ought not to dislike them, but do all we can to make them love us.”

Simeon bent his head upon his sister’s; her artless words had rebuked and shamed him. But prejudice might not even then be overcome. He knew she was right and he was wrong, so he would not answer, glad to hear Leah gaily demand a history of his weekly proceedings, as he had not yet spoken. He had little to relate, except that he was now beginning really to understand his business. His master had said that he should soon be obliged to raise his salary; and, what was a real source of happiness, from the care and quickness with which he now accomplished his tasks, he found time for his favourite amusement of modelling, which circumstances had compelled him so long to neglect. Joseph had to tell of similar kindness on the part of his master and industry on his own. He told, too, with great glee, that Mr. Bennet had promised to give him some lessons in the evenings, in the language which of all others he wished most particularly to understand. He knew many were satisfied merely to read their prayers in Hebrew, whether they understood them or not, but he wished to understand it thoroughly, and all the time he was cleaning jewels, for he was now quite expert, he thought over what his master had so kindly taught him; perhaps one day he might be able to know Hebrew thoroughly himself, and oh, what a delight that would be!

By the time Joseph had finished his tale, the table had been cleared; and then the widow opened the large Bible, and after fervently blessing God for His mercy in permitting them all to see the close of another week in health and peace, read aloud a chapter and psalm. Varied as were the characters and wishes of all present, every heart united in reverence and love towards this weekly service—in, if possible, increased devotion towards that beloved parent, who so faithfully endeavoured to support not alone her own duties towards her offspring, but those of their departed father. She had not lost those hours and days, aye, and sometimes long weeks of suffering, with which it had pleased God to afflict her. When confined to her bed, the Bible had been her sole companion, and she so communed with it and her own heart, that many passages, which had before been veiled, were now made clear and light, and her constant prayer for wisdom and religion to lead her offspring in its paths of pleasantness and peace granted to the full. Yet Rachel was no great scholar. Let it not be imagined amongst those who read this little tale, that she was unusually gifted. She was indeed so far gifted that she had a trusting spirit and a most humble and child-like mind, and of worldly ways was most entirely ignorant; and it was these feelings which kept her so persevering in the path of duty, and, leading her to the footstool of her God, gave her the strength of wisdom that she needed; and to every mother in Israel these powers are given.

“Well, my dear children, to whom must I look for the text which is to occupy us this evening?” said the widow, glancing affectionately round as she ceased to read.

“To me and Ruth, mother; for you know we always think together,” answered Joseph, eagerly. “And you don’t know how we have both been longing for this evening, for the verse we have chosen has made us think so much, and with all our thinking, we cannot quite satisfy ourselves.”

“But what is it, my boy?”

“It is the one our dear father repeated on his death-bed, mother. I have often thought of it since, but feared it would make you sorrowful, if we spoke of it for the first year or two; but as I found Ruth had thought of it and wished it explained also, we said we would ask you to talk about it to-night. You repeat it, Ruth; you pronounce the Hebrew so prettily!”

And timidly, but sweetly, Ruth said, first in Hebrew and then in English, “‘Commit your ways unto the Lord; trust also in him, and he will bring it to pass.’ Ways,” continued the child, “was the word which first puzzled us, but Sarah has explained it to me so plainly, I understand it better now.”

“Tell us then, Sarah dear,” said her aunt.

“It seems to me,” she said, “that the word ways has many meanings. In the verse, ‘Show me thy ways, O Lord,’ I think it means actions. In another verse, ‘The Lord made known his ways unto Moses, his acts unto the children of Israel,’ I think ways mean thoughts!”

“And there are several in Proverbs,” interposed Simeon, “which would make us regard ways as the path we are to tread; as for instance, ‘Who leaveth the path of righteousness, to walk in the ways of darkness.’”

“But Ruth and I want to know in which of these ways we are to regard it in our verse,” persisted Joseph.

“As meaning both outward actions and inward thoughts, my dear children,” replied his mother. “I have thought long on this verse, and I am glad you have chosen it for discussion. Perhaps you do not know, my little Joseph, that we must think to act; that it is very seldom any good or bad action is performed without previous thought; and, consequently, if we would be pure in act, we must commit our thoughts unto the Lord.”

“But how are we to do this, mother?” asked Leah.

“By constant prayer, my love; by endeavouring, wherever we are, or whatever we may be doing, to remember God knows our every thought before it has words, and long before it becomes action. We are apt, perhaps, to indulge in the wildest thoughts, simply because we imagine ourselves secure from all observation. From human observation we are secure, but not from our Father who is in heaven; and therefore we should endeavour so to train our thoughts as to banish all which we dare not commit unto our God.”

“But are there not some things, dear aunt, too trivial, too much mingled with earthly feelings, to bring before a Being of such ineffable holiness and purity?” inquired Sarah, in a voice which, notwithstanding all her efforts, audibly faltered.

“Ah, that is what I want so much to know,” added Joseph.

“You must not forget, my dear Sarah,” resumed Mrs. Perez, “that our God is a God of love and compassion, as infinite as His holiness; that every throb of pain or joy in the creature His love has formed, is felt as well as ordained by Him. No nation has a God so near to them as Israel; and we, of all others, ought to derive and realize comfort from the belief that He knows our nature in its strivings after righteousness, as well as in its sin. He knows all our temptations, all our struggles, far better than our dearest earthly friends, and His loving mercy towards us is infinitely stronger. Therefore we can better commit our secret thoughts and feelings unto His keeping, than to that of our nearest friends on earth.”

“And may children do this, mother?”

“Yes, dear boy; our Father has children in His tender care and guiding, even as those of more experienced age. Accustom yourselves, while engaged in thought, to ask, ‘Can I ask my Father’s blessing on these thoughts, and on the actions they lead to?’ and rest assured conscience will give you a true answer. If it say, ‘No,’ dismiss the trifling or sinful meditations on the instant; send up a brief prayer to God for help, and He will hear you. If, on the contrary, conscience approve your thought, encourage it, as leading you nearer, closer, and more lovingly to God.”

“But is not this close communion more necessary for women than for men, mother?” inquired Simeon.

“Women may need it more, my dear boy; but, believe me, it is equally, if not more necessary for man. Think of the many temptations to evil which men have in their intercourse with the world; the daily, almost hourly call for the conquest of inclination and passion, which, without some very strong incentive, can never be subdued. One unguarded moment, and the labour of years after righteousness may be annihilated. Man may not need the comfort of this close communion so much as women, but he yet more requires its strength. Nothing is so likely to keep him from sin, as committing his thoughts even as his actions unto the Lord.”

“Thank you, my dear mother; that first bit is clear,” said Joseph. “Now I want the second: the third is the most puzzling of all, but we shall come to that by and bye.”

“You surely know what it means by to ‘trust in Him,’ Joseph?” said Leah.

“I think I do, sister mine, for it was mother’s humble trust in the Lord that supported her in her sorrows: that I saw, I felt, though I was a child; but—” he hesitated.

“Well, my boy?”

“To trust, I think, means to have faith. Now, Henry Stevens said the other day, Jews have no faith—and how can we trust, then?”

“My dearest Joseph, do not let your companions so mislead you,” answered his mother, earnestly. “I know that is a charge often brought against us; but it is always from those who do not know our religion, and who judge us only from those who, by their words and actions, condemn it themselves. The Jew must have faith, not only in the existence of God, but in the sacred history our God inspired, or he is no Jew. He must feel faith—believe God hears and will answer, or his prayers, however fervent, are of no avail. Without faith, his very existence must be an enigma, and his whole life misery. Oh, believe me, my dear children, as no nation has God so near them, so no nation has so much need of faith, and no nation has so experienced the strength, and peace, and fulness which it brings.”

“But how does our verse mean that we are to trust in the Lord, mother?” asked Ruth.

“It belongs both to the first and last division of the verse, my love. If we commit our ways unto the Lord, and trust also in Him (remember one is of no avail without the other), then He will bring it to pass.”

“Ah! that is it. I am so glad we have come to that,” eagerly exclaimed Joseph. “Mother, does it mean, can it mean that our Father will grant our prayers, will give us what we most wish?”

“If it be for our good, my boy; if our wishes be acceptable in His sight; if they will tend to our eternal as well as our temporal welfare; and we bring them before Him in unfailing confidence, believing firmly that He will answer in His own good time—we may rest assured that He will answer us, that He will grant our prayers.”

“But that which is for our good may not be what we most wish for,” resumed Joseph, despondingly.

“But, my boy, if what we wish for is not for our good, is it not more merciful and kind to deny than to grant it? Remember, God knows us better than we know ourselves; and we may ask what would lead us to evil temporally and eternally. If, for a wise and merciful purpose, even our good desires are not granted, be assured that peace, strength, and healing will be given in their stead.”

The little circle looked very thoughtful as the impressive voice of the widow ceased.

Sarah seemed more than usually moved; for, as she bent over her little Bible, which she had opened at the verse, tears one by one fell silently upon the page. Whether Ruth heard them drop, or from her seat close by her cousin felt that the hand she caressingly held trembled, we know not, but the child rose and threw her little arms around her neck.

“Do you remember who it was wrote the verse we are considering?” said the widow, after a pause.

“King David,” answered Joseph and Simeon together.

“Then you see it was no prosperous monarch, no peaceful lawgiver, but one whose life had passed in trials, compared to which our severest misfortunes must seem trifling. Hunted from place to place, in daily danger of his life, compelled even to feign madness, separated from all whom he loved, from all of happiness or peace, even debarred from the public exercise of his faith, his very prayers at times seemingly unheeded—yet it is this faithful servant of God who exclaims, ‘Commit your ways unto the Lord; trust also in him, and he will bring it to pass.’ We know not the exact time he wrote these words; but we know he wrote from experience, for did not God indeed bring happiness to pass for him? If we think of the life of him who wrote these blessed words, as well as the words themselves, we must derive strength and comfort from the reflection.”

“Yes, yes; I see and feel it all now,” exclaimed Joseph, eagerly as before. “Oh, mother, I can think about it now without any puzzling at all. I am so glad. Cannot you, Ruth?”

“Hush!” answered the child, as she suddenly started up in an attitude of attentive listening. “Hush! I am sure that is Reuben’s step: he is coming, he is coming. Oh, what joy for me!”

“You are wrong, dear; and it only disappoints mother,” said Leah, gently.

“No, no! I know I am not. There listen; do you not hear steps now?”

“Yes: but how can you be sure they are his?” answered Simeon. “It is so very unlikely, I should have thought of everybody else first?”

Ruth made no answer; but she bounded from the room, and had opened the street-door, regardless of Leah’s entreaties to wait at least till the steps came nearer. A very few minutes more, and all doubts were solved by the entrance of Ruth, not walking, but clinging round her brother Reuben’s neck and almost stifling him with kisses, only interrupting herself to say, “Who was right, Miss Leah and Master Simeon? Ah, you did not have Reuben for long weeks to attend and nurse, as I had, or you would have known his step too.”

“You can love me still, then?” murmured her brother, as only to be heard by her; then added aloud, “my mother should have had the first kiss, dearest; let me ask her blessing, Ruth?”

She released him, though she still held his hand; and hastening to his mother, he bent his head before her.

“Is it too late to ask my mother’s Sabbath blessing?” he said, and his voice was strangely choked. “Bless me, dearest mother, as you used to do.”

The widow rose and, laying her hands upon his head, repeated the customary Hebrew blessing, and then folded him to her heart.

“It is never, never too late for a mother’s blessing—a mother’s love, my Reuben,” she said, her voice quivering with the efforts she made to restrain her emotion. “I could have wished it oftener and earlier asked on the Sabbath eve; but it is yours, my boy, each night and morning, though you hear it not.”

“And will it always be? Mother! mother! will you never withdraw it from me? No, no, you will not. You love me only too, too well,” and abruptly breaking from her, after kissing her passionately, he turned to greet his brothers and sisters.

All met him cordially and affectionately, except perhaps that there was a stern look of inquiry in Simeon’s eyes, which Reuben, from some unexpressed feeling, could not meet; and, looking from him, he exclaimed—

“Sarah! where is my kind cousin Sarah? will she not give me welcome?”

“She was here this moment,” said Leah; “where can she have vanished?”

“Not very far, dear cousin: I am here. Reuben, can you believe one moment that I do not rejoice to see you once again at home?” said Sarah, advancing from the farther side of the room and placing her hand frankly in her cousin’s, looking up in his face with her clear, pensive eyes, but cheeks as pale as marble.

Reuben pressed her hand within his own, tried to meet smilingly her glance and speak as usual, but both efforts failed, and again he turned away.

“And he has come to stay with us—he will not leave us in a hurry again,” said the affectionate little Ruth, keeping her seat on his knee, and nestling her head in his bosom. “I wanted but you to make this evening quite, quite happy.”

Reuben kissed her to conceal a sigh, and controlling himself, he entered cheerfully and caressingly into all Ruth and Joseph had to tell, called for all interesting conversation from the other members of his family, and imparted many particulars of himself. He was rising high in the world, had been the fortunate means of preventing a great loss to the firm of which he was a servant, and so raised his salary, and himself in the estimation of his employers. Fortune smiled on him, he said, in many ways, and he had had the happiness of securing a trifling fund for his mother, which though small was sure, and would provide her yearly with a moderate sum. He had something else to propose, but there would be time enough for that. His mother blessed and thanked him; but her heart was not at rest. Cheerful as the conversation was, happy as the last hour ought to have been, there was a dim foreboding on her spirit which she could not conquer. Something was yet to be told, Reuben was not at peace, and when indeed he did speak that something, it was with a confused more than a joyous tone.

“I do not know why I should delay telling you of my intention, mother,” he said at length; “I have had too many proofs of your affection to doubt of your rejoicing in anything that will make my happiness—I am going to be married.”

There was a general start and exclamation from all but two in the group—his mother and cousin.

“If it will make your happiness, my son, I do indeed rejoice,” the former said very calmly. “Whom do you give me for another daughter?”

“You do not know her yet, mother; but I am sure you will learn to love her dearly: it is Jeanie Wilson, the only child of my fellow-clerk.”

“Jeanie Wilson!—a Christian! Reuben, Reuben, how have you fallen!” burst angrily, almost fiercely, from Simeon; “but it is folly to be surprised—I knew it would be so.”

“Indeed! wonderfully clear-sighted as you were then, if you consider such a union humiliation, it would have been more brotherly, perhaps, to have warned me of the precipice on which I stood,” answered Reuben, sarcastically.

“Yes! you gave me so fair an opportunity to act a brother’s part; never seeking me, or permitting me to seek you, for weeks together; herding with strangers alone—following them alike in the store and in the mart—loving what they love, doing as they do—and, like them, scorning, despising, and persecuting that holy people who once called you son—forgetting your birthright, your sainted heritage—throwing dishonour on the dead as on the living, to link yourself with those who assuredly will, if they do not now, despise you. Shame, foul shame upon you!”

“Have you done?” calmly inquired Reuben, though the red spot was on his cheek. “It is something for the elder to be bearded thus by the younger. Yet be it so. I have done nothing for which to feel shame—nothing to dishonour those with whom I am related. If they feel themselves dishonoured, let them leave me; I can meet the world alone.”

“Aye, so far alone, that you will rejoice that others have cast aside the chains of nature, and given you freedom to follow your own apostate path unquestioned and unrebuked.”

“Peace, I command you!” exclaimed the widow, with a tone and gesture of authority which awed Simeon into silence, and checked the wrathful reply on Reuben’s lips. “My sons, profane not the Sabbath of your God with this wild and wicked contention. Simeon, however you may lament what Reuben has disclosed, it is not your part to forget he is your brother—yes, an elder brother—still.”

“I will own no apostate for my brother!” muttered the still irritated young man. “Others may regard him as they list; if he have given up his faith, I will not call him brother.”

“I have neither the will nor occasion to forswear my faith,” replied Reuben calmly. “Mr. Wilson has made no condition in giving me his daughter, except that she may follow her own faith, which I were indeed prejudiced and foolish to deny. He believes as I do; to believe in God is enough—all religions are the same before Him.”

“That is to say, he is, like yourself, of no religion at all,” rejoined Simeon, bitterly. “Better he had been prejudiced, rigid, even despising us as others do; then this misfortune would not have befallen us.”

“Is it a misfortune to you, mother? Leah—Ruth—Joseph, will you all refuse to love my wife? You will not, cannot, when you see and know her.”

“As your wife, Reuben, we cannot feel indifference towards her,” replied Leah, tears standing in her eyes; “yet if you had brought us one of our own people, oh, how much happier it would have made us!”

“And why should it, my dear sister? Mother why should it be such a source of grief? I do not turn from the faith of my fathers: I may neglect, disregard those forms and ordinances which I do not feel at all incumbent on me to obey, but I must be a Jew—I cannot believe with the Christian, and I cannot feel how my marriage with a gentle, loving, and most amiable girl can make me other than I am. We are in no way commanded to marry only amongst ourselves.”

“You are mistaken; we are so commanded, my dear son. In very many parts of our Holy Law we are positively forbidden to intermarry with the stranger; and, as a proof that so to wed was considered criminal, one of the first and most important points on which Ezra and Nehemiah insisted, was the putting away of strange wives.”

“But they were idolaters, mother. Jeanie and I worship the same God.”

“But you do not believe in the same creed, and therefore is the belief in one God more dangerous. We ought to keep ourselves yet more distinct, now that we are mingled up amongst those who know God and serve Him, though not as we do. You do not think thus, my dear son; and therefore all we may do is but to pray that the happiness you expect may be realized.”

“And in praying for it, of course you doubt it, though I still cannot imagine why. Sarah, you have not spoken: do you believe me so terrible a reprobate that there is no chance for my happiness, temporally and eternally?”

He spoke bitterly, perhaps harshly, for he had longed for her to speak, and her silence strangely, painfully reproached him. He did not choose to know why, and so he vented in bitter words to her the anger he felt towards himself.

“My opinion can be of little value after my aunt’s,” she answered, meekly; “but this believe, dear cousin, if you and Jeanie are only as blessed and happy together as I wish you, you will be one of the happiest couples on earth.”

“I do believe it!” he said, passionately springing towards her, and seizing both her hands. “Sarah, dear Sarah, forgive me. I was harsh and bitter to you, who were always my better angel; say you forgive me!” He repeated the word, with a strong emphasis upon it.

“I did not know that you had given me anything to forgive, Reuben,” she replied, struggling to smile; “but if you think you have, I do forgive you from my very heart.”

“Bless you for the word!” he said, still gazing fixedly in her face, which calmly met his look.

“Thank God, one misery is spared me,” he muttered to himself; then added, “and you think I may be happy?”

“I trust you will; and if it please God to bless you with prosperity, I think you may.”

“How do you mean?”

“That while all things go smoothly, you will not feel the division, the barrier which your opposing creeds must silently erect between you. But if affliction, if death should happen, Reuben, dearest Reuben, may you never repent this engagement then.”

The young man actually trembled at the startling earnestness of her words.

“And will you, surely you will not, marry in church, brother?” timidly inquired Joseph.

“He must, he cannot help himself!” hoarsely interposed Simeon, who had remained sitting in moody silence for some time; “and yet he would say he is no apostate, no deserter from our faith.”

“You said you had something to ask mother, Reuben,” said Ruth, pressing close to his side, for she feared the painful altercation between her brothers might recommence.

“I had,” he answered, “but I fear it is useless now. Mother, Jeanie and I hoped to have offered you a home—to have entreated you to live with us, and return to the comforts which were yours; we should seek but to give you joy. But after what has passed this evening, I fear we have hoped in vain.”

“I wonder you dared hope it,” muttered Simeon. “Would our mother live with any one who lives not as a Jew, whose dearest pride is to seem in all points like the stranger with whom he lives?”

“Thank you for the kind will, my dear son,” replied the widow, affectionately, though sorrowfully; “but you are right in thinking it cannot be. I am too old and too ailing to mingle now with strangers. I cannot leave my own lowly dwelling; I cannot give up these forms and ordinances which I have learned to love, and believe obligatory upon me. Bring your wife to me, if indeed she does not scorn your poor Jewish mother; she will meet but love from me and mine.”

Reuben flung himself impetuously on her neck, and she felt his whole frame tremble as with choking sobs. His sister, Sarah, and Joseph reiterated their mothers words; Simeon alone was silent. Another half-hour passed—an interval painful to all parties, despite the exertions of Sarah and the widow to make it cheerful, and then Reuben rose to depart. His affectionate embrace, his warm “Good night, God bless you,” was welcomed and returned as warmly by all, and then he looked for Simeon. The youth was standing at the farther end of the apartment, in the deepest shadow, his arms folded on his breast, his lip compressed, and eyes fixed sternly on the ground.

“Simeon!” exclaimed Reuben, as he approached him with frankly extended hand, “Simeon! we are brothers; let us part friends.”

“Give up this intended marriage, come back to the faith you have deserted, and we are brothers,” answered Simeon, sternly. “If not, we are severed, and for ever.”

“Be it as you will, then,” answered Reuben, controlling anger with a violent effort. “Should you need a brother or a friend, you will find them both in me: the God of our fathers demands not violence like this.”

“He does not—He does not. Simeon, I beseech, COMMAND you, do not part thus with your brother; on your love, your duty to me, as your only remaining parent, I command this,” his mother said, mildly, but imperatively; but for once she spoke in vain. Leah, Sarah, Joseph, all according to their different characters, sought to soften him; but the dark cloud only thickened on his brow. At that moment a light form pressed through them all, and clasping his knees, looked up in that agitated face, as if those sightless orbs had more than common power—and Ruth it was that spoke.

“Brother,” she said, in her clear, sweet voice, “brother, our father bade us love our brother, even if he turned aside from all we hold most sacred and most dear. We stood around his death-bed, and we promised this—to love him to the end. Brother, you will not break this vow? No, no: our father looks upon us, hears us still!”

There was a strong and terrible struggle on the part of Simeon, and a heavy groan of repentant anguish broke from the very heart of Reuben.

“My father, my poor father! did he so love me? And will you still hate me, Simeon?” he gasped forth.

Another moment, and the brothers were clasped in each others arms.