There entered then, on poor shuffling feet, Mannie Kantor so marred in the mysterious and ceramic process of life that the brain and the soul had stayed back sooner than inhabit him.  Seventeen in years, in the down upon his face, and in growth unretarded by any great nervosity of system, his vacuity of face was not that of childhood but rather as if his light eyes were peering out from some hinterland and wanting so terribly and so dumbly to communicate what they beheld to brain-cells closed against himself.

At sight of Mannie, Leon Kantor, the tears still wetly and dirtily down his cheeks, left off his black, fierce-eyed stare of waiting long enough to smile, darkly, it is true, but sweetly.

“Giddy-ap!” he cried.  “Giddy-ap!”

And then Mannie, true to habit, would scamper and scamper.

Up out of the traplike stair-opening came the head of Mrs. Kantor, disheveled and a smudge of soot across her face, but beneath her arm, triumphant, a violin of one string and a broken back.

“See, Leon—­what mamma got!  A violin!  A fiddle!  Look—­the bow, too, I found.  It ain’t much, baby, but it’s a fiddle.”

“Aw, ma—­that’s my old violin—­gimme—­I want it—­where’d you find—­”

“Hush up, Izzy!  This ain’t yours no more.  See, Leon, what mamma brought you!  A violin!”

“Now, you little Chammer, you got a feedle, and if you ever let me hear you holler again for a feedle, by golly if I don’t—­”

From his corner, Leon Kantor reached out, taking the instrument and fitting it beneath his chin, the bow immediately feeling, surely and lightly for string.

“Look, Abrahm!  He knows how to hold it!  What did I tell you?  A child that never in his life seen a fiddle, except a beggar’s on the street!”

Little Esther suddenly cantered down-floor, clapping her chubby hands.

“Looky—­looky—­Leon!”

The baby ceased clattering his spoon against the wooden bib.  A silence seemed to shape itself.

So black and so bristly of head, his little clawlike hands hovering over the bow, Leon Kantor withdrew a note, strangely round and given up almost sobbingly from the single string.  A note of warm twining quality, like a baby’s finger.

“Leon—­darlink!”

Fumbling for string and for notes the instrument could not yield up to him, the birdlike mouth began once more to open widely and terribly into the orificial O.

It was then Abrahm Kantor came down with a large hollow resonance of palm against the aperture, lifting his small son and depositing him plop upon the family album.

“Take that!  By golly, one more whimper out of you and if I don’t make you black-and-blue, birthday or no birthday!  Dish up, Sarah, quick, or I’ll give him something to cry about.”

The five pink candles had been lighted, burning pointedly and with slender little smoke wisps.  Regarding them owlishly, the tears dried on Leon’s face, his little tongue licking up at them.