The Belcovitch workshop was another of the landmarks of the past that had undergone no change, despite the cupboard with glass doors and the slight difference in the shape of the room.  The paper roses still bloomed in the corners of the mirror, the cotton-labels still adorned the wall around it.  The master’s new umbrella still stood unopened in a corner.  The “hands” were other, but then Mr. Belcovitch’s hands were always changing.  He never employed “union-men,” and his hirelings never stayed with him longer than they could help.  One of the present batch, a bent, middle-aged man, with a deeply-lined face, was Simon Wolf, long since thrown over by the labor party he had created, and fallen lower and lower till he returned to the Belcovitch workshop whence he sprang.  Wolf, who had a wife and six children, was grateful to Mr. Belcovitch in a dumb, sullen way, remembering how that capitalist had figured in his red rhetoric, though it was an extra pang of martyrdom to have to listen deferentially to Belcovitch’s numerous political and economical fallacies.  He would have preferred the curter dogmatism of earlier days.  Shosshi Shmendrik was chatting quite gaily with Becky, and held her finger-tips cavalierly in his coarse fist, without obvious objection on her part.  His face was still pimply, but it had lost its painful shyness and its readiness to blush without provocation.  His bearing, too, was less clumsy and uncouth.  Evidently, to love the Widow Finkelstein had been a liberal education to him.  Becky had broken the news of Esther’s arrival to her father, as was evident from the odor of turpentine emanating from the opened bottle of rum on the central table.  Mr. Belcovitch, whose hair was gray now, but who seemed to have as much stamina as ever, held out his left hand (the right was wielding the pressing-iron) without moving another muscle.

“Nu, it gladdens me to see you are better off than of old,” he said gravely in Yiddish.

“Thank you.  I am glad to see you looking so fresh and healthy,” replied Esther in German.

“You were taken away to be educated, was it not?”

“Yes.”

“And how many tongues do you know?”

“Four or five,” said Esther, smiling.

“Four or five!” repeated Mr. Belcovitch, so impressed that he stopped pressing.  “Then you can aspire to be a clerk!  I know several firms where they have young women now.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, father,” interposed Becky.  “Clerks aren’t so grand now-a-days as they used to be.  Very likely she would turn up her nose at a clerkship.”

“I’m sure I wouldn’t,” said Esther.

“There! thou hearest!” said Mr. Belcovitch, with angry satisfaction.  “It is thou who hast too many flies in thy nostrils.  Thou wouldst throw over Shosshi if thou hadst thine own way.  Thou art the only person in the world who listens not to me.  Abroad my word decides great matters.  Three times has my name been printed in The Flag of Judah.  Little Esther had not such a father as thou, but never did she make mock of him.”