The Yoke Of The Thorah

ouds, leaden of hue and woolly of texture, had hung very close to the earth. Weather-wise people had predicted snow-the first snow of the season;

off across the tree-tops into the lowering north. A foolish thing to do. It was a cheerless prospect. In the clouds he could trace a hundred sullen faces. The tree-tops shivered. The whistling wind, the noises of the street, the drone of a distant hand-organ, mingled in dreary, enervating counterpoint. His ow

by Elia

he said, "and

disagreeable odor of petroleum from the refineries across the river. "I might as well-I might better-have remained within-doors," was his reflection. Presently, however, he found himself in union Square. This reminded him that there was a little matter about which he wanted to see Matthew Redwood, the costumer. Elias had lately r

off. Three pallid cupids, wretchedly out of drawing, floated around the plaster medallion from which the gas fixture depended. Elias never entered here without thinking of the curious secrets those cupids might have whispered, if they had been empowered to open their painted lips. What scenes of joy and sorrow had they not looked down upon in the past? Merry-makers had danced beneath them; women had wept beneath them; lovers had wooed their mistresses beneath them; what else? The intimate inner life of a family, of a home, had gone on beneath them. How many domestic quarrels had they watched? How many weddings? How many fu

yellow pier-glass between the windows. Far in its mottled depths-down, that is to say, at the remotest and darkest end of the room-he saw Matthew Redwood, the costumer, in conversation with a young girl. The young girl's face, a spot of light amid the surroundin

f her. She was chatting vivaciously with the master of the premises. In response to some remark of his, she laughed. Her laugh was as crisp, as merry, as melodious, as a chime of musical glasses. Who could she be, and what, Elias wondered. Probably an actress. Few ladies, unless actresses, had dealings with the costumer, Redwood. Yet, at the utmost, she was not more than seventeen years old; and her natural and unsophisticated bea

can I do for you?" old Redwood aske

veal to another the interest and the admiration that she had aroused in him. He was afraid that his motive might be misconstrued, afraid of compromising his dignity, of

rade. Why, certainly. I've got a whole lot of lithographs, that show all the varieties. But they're up to my house. Yo

ias. "Where do you live? And when

d you might drop in most any evening after dinne

," agreed Elias, and bade

estions concerning her presented themselves for solution. Her name? He ran over all the women's names that he could think of, from Abigail down to Zillah, seeking for one that seemed to fit her. None struck him as delicate or musical enough. Her condition in life? Was she, after all, an actress? If so, at what theater? He did not care much for the theater as a general thing; but if he only knew at which one she performed, he would certainly go to see her. Her age? Had he been right in setting it down at seventeen? Where did she live? Who were her family? Would he, Elias Bacharach, ever come face to face with her again? What were the chances of his some time having an opportunity to make her acquaintance? Perhaps he knew somebody who knew her, and could introduce him to her. Only, he was ignorant of