cap and a fashionable jacket and skirt, was standing behind the door of the tent, a solid detached villa on the brink of a lake, whereon ships and gondolas floated, what time Abraham welcomed the three celestial messengers, unobtrusively disguised with heavy pinions.  What delight as the quaking of each of the four cups of wine loomed in sight, what disappointment and mutual bantering when the cup had merely to be raised in the hand, what chaff of the greedy Solomon who was careful not to throw away a drop during the digital manoeuvres when the wine must be jerked from the cup at the mention of each plague.  And what a solemn moment was that when the tallest goblet was filled to the brim for the delectation of the prophet Elijah and the door thrown open for his entry.  Could one almost hear the rustling of the prophet’s spirit through the room?  And what though the level of the wine subsided not a barley-corn?  Elijah, though there was no difficulty in his being in all parts of the world simultaneously, could hardly compass the greater miracle of emptying so many million goblets.  Historians have traced this custom of opening the door to the necessity of asking the world to look in and see for itself that no blood of Christian child figured in the ceremonial—­and for once science has illumined naive superstition with a tragic glow more poetic still.  For the London Ghetto persecution had dwindled to an occasional bellowing through the keyhole, as the local rowdies heard the unaccustomed melodies trolled forth from jocund lungs and then the singers would stop for a moment, startled, and some one would say:  “Oh, it’s only a Christian rough,” and take up the thread of song.

And then, when the Ajikuman had been eaten and the last cup of wine drunk, and it was time to go to bed, what a sweet sense of sanctity and security still reigned.  No need to say your prayers to-night, beseeching the guardian of Israel, who neither slumbereth nor sleepeth, to watch over you and chase away the evil spirits; the angels are with you—­Gabriel on your right and Raphael on your left, and Michael behind you.  All about the Ghetto the light of the Passover rested, transfiguring the dreary rooms and illumining the gray lives.

Dutch Debby sat beside Mrs. Simons at the table of that good soul’s married daughter; the same who had suckled little Sarah.  Esther’s frequent eulogiums had secured the poor lonely narrow-chested seamstress this enormous concession and privilege.  Bobby squatted on the mat in the passage ready to challenge Elijah.  At this table there were two pieces of fried fish sent to Mrs. Simons by Esther Ansell.  They represented the greatest revenge of Esther’s life, and she felt remorseful towards Malka, remembering to whose gold she owed this proud moment.  She made up her mind to write her a letter of apology in her best hand.