The Yoke Of The Thorah

h the still air. The street below was noisy with the sound of shovels scraping the pavement. The daylight had caught a deathlike pallor from the whiteness round about. Elias wondered whether he woul

no more. The

arlor, and sat down facing the foldi

beating? Why did his breath become labored and tremulous? Why did his lips quiver, his cheeks burn? Why should the sight of her have had this effect upon a man who did not love her, who was not even on the point of loving her? And then, when he took the proffered hand in his, and gazed down at her face, and breathed the air that her presence sweetened, why was his breast suddenly pierced by a stra

omething appropriate to say. But-such perturbation did her mere nearness cause him-his senses were dispersed, his tongue was tied. At last, however,

you ar

red, "I don't f

hope it is no

I feel lazy and chilly. I'm

t for me this morning. We'll wait abou

bad to del

t difference. And now, I know you ought to go a

nifest effort; and the speaker made no v

e asked; and Elias th

nothing better than to stay; only,

come into the back room? It

it, feet on fender, reading his newspaper. He greeted Elias, without rising

to her. He did not speak. He had no desire to speak. He would gladly have sat there al

up here for nothing, Mr. Bacharach. It makes me

uch great value; and there's no place

ng you not to come; but I had no idea I was going to

write the note," he said

eceived it, could you? To-day being Sunday, it

cond to touch it, to stroke it, to press it to his lips. The hand must have felt the influence of his gaze, for it began to move about in a restless, uneasy manner, and ended

birthday come right after Christmas? Because, of course, you can't expect to get presents so soon again. I want my father to change my birthday to July

e to have your name changed, too. We named you Christine, on account of your being born

s as they are. I should hate to be called

nfidential-thus to be allowed to speak her name in her presence.-"Chris

your name is Elias,

am, and Elias. My father's name was Abraham, his father's Elias, and so on back. The younger son

n named Ephraim," old

ey didn't name you Ephraim o

ugly. When I was a boy, it used to make me quite

it isn't a bit ugly. It's strong. It has so

her pronounce and applaud his own. Indeed, the quality of the name hereby underwent a consid

remember those names that Rossetti mentions in '

Gertrude another, weren't they

he book is right there on th

k, sought the pla

hose

sweet s

ertrude,

t and R

, Mr. Bacharach, whether

Of course I will, an

hole poem a

lk to her of his own love. And all the while, as he was reading, he was conscious of a dainty, subtle fragrance being wafted toward him from where his auditor was seated, and penetrating to his heart, and makin

tly, "Oh, how beautifully you read it! You made me

he keenest and the most

t on, "which one of Rossetti's

choose. Yet, perhaps, I like 'The Bride's

ugh, if I

ha'n't. Tell

that I have scarcely ever heard praised or quoted-may be yo

, slowly, intently, musically,

s together, and give me such a strange heartache. What could it have been, the thing that separated them? I suppose he must have done something base-something that killed her love, so that he lost her forever. Yet I can't unde

epeated t

we be s

beneath h

but I a

we be

while she was speaking, she could not have failed to guess his secret. Pale cheeks, parted lips, and eyes riveted upon her

e. When 'but' is used as a preposition, in the sense of 'except,' it governs the accusative case. At least, that's how I

it's poet's lic

Well, I guess I may as well go out and get shaved, Chris. I'll leave you i

s alone

re. He sat forward, upon the ultimate edge of his chair, and looked at her.

neither of

lias broke

dwood," he bega

she q

compressed, his mouth hot and parched. He knew perfectly well what

cessive repetitions of her name, l

t their eyes

tion took away his breath, made his body quiver, his head swim, as if

and a scarlet blush suff

ght her hand, and whispered-a tense, eager whisper, t

away. She trembled

y darling. Don't tr

er eyes, nor spoke. Her blush had died away, leaving h

ld not help it. I love you. I cou

chair, "Don't-please don't," she p

to tell you. Oh, why do you shrink away from me, l

pulsively; but then she bl

cried, with a great sigh of re

nd his eyes consumed her face. By and by,

s parte

e you-with all m

espo

-do you be

then a scarce

ourage. "Do you think it will ever

ans

-won't you

n his. But then they hastened to seek refuge behind dropped lids, as if afraid of

im hard and close. Her face lay against his shoulder. There was no sound

ink-perhaps-you do-c

ow," in a t

least bit i

more timid whisper still. "I-I neve

now that you have thought of it-

don't hate

ed it. It was burning hot

se," she sa

no s

length, "

es

ling you by your fi

if you l

ou-could ever c

n't k

It-it would make

t it sounded more like a l

py! But do you want to

shall

are not sorry

I am no

l me that yo

think-I

say just one thing more?

ickly. "Perhaps

ew her close to him. This time she offered no

heart is beating!"

heard a foots

her," she sai

ell him?" E

ill tell him afte

ey might have a green Christmas after all; and they neither of them believed in that lugubrious old proverb about a fat church-yard, any how; and, of course, Mr. Bacharach would stay to dinner, wouldn't he? and, well, he would like to, very much indeed, but he didn't want to wear o

door. Never before had the simple process o

s a person in sound health can be, without going sheer out of his senses. His brain whirled round and round. It was impossible for him to carry on a consecutive or coherent process of thought. Dazzling glimpses of the happiness that the future held in store

t she had given him, and all the rest. At last, without apparent why or wherefore, there began to haunt his mind that verse of Rossetti's poetry, which,

we be s

beneath h

but I a

we be

He hardly dared to credit his memory. He hardly dared to believe that what he remembered was the very truth

r," he cried exultantl

ot a vestige of them remained. At a touch, it seemed, love had converted Elias Bacharach from the most reactiona

e written it in books, is not to be weighed against the Law

ver professed a creed by which such a marriage would have been accounted sin. When he recollected how, less than a week ago, that same creed had kept him awake, praying, all night long-when h

e better of the Je