Deborah swept along like a torch. With a single harsh cry, which was followed by a gruesome stillness like that of a dead world, Deborah reached the door of the Rabbi and fell before it, the latch in her outstretched right hand. With her left hand she pounded against the brown wood. Menuchim slipped to the ground before her.

Someone opened the door. The Rabbi stood at the window, his back turned to her, a narrow black line. Suddenly he turned to face her. She stopped on the threshold, holding out her son upon both arms, as one offers a sacrifice. She caught a gleam from the man’s white countenance, which seemed one with his white beard. She had intended to gaze into the eyes of the Holy One, to convince herself that a powerful goodness really lived in them. But now that she stood there, a sea of tears blurred her vision, and she saw the man behind a white wave of water and salt. He lifted his hand; she thought she recognized two thin fingers, the instrument of blessing. But very near her she heard the voice of the Rabbi although he only whispered:

‘Menuchim, Mendel’s son, will be healed. There will not be many like him in Israel. Pain will make him wise, ugliness good, bitterness mild, and sickness strong. His eyes will see far and deep. His ears will be clear and full of echoes. His mouth will be silent, but when he opens his lips they will announce good tidings. Have no fear, and go home!’

‘When, when, when will he be well?’ Deborah whispered.

‘After many years,’ said the Rabbi, ‘but ask me no more. I have no time and this is all I know. Do not leave your son even if he is a great burden to you. Do not send him away from your side; he is yours even as a healthy child is. And now go! …’

Outside they cleared a way for her. Her cheeks were pale, her eyes dry, her lips were lighdy opened as though she breathed in hope. With grace in her heart she turned homeward.

II

WHEN DEBORAH RETURNED home, she found her husband at the hearth. Unwillingly he tended the fire, the pot, the wooden spoons. His upright soul was directed upon simple earthly things, and he tolerated no miracles within reach of his eyes. He smiled at his wife’s simple faith in the Rabbi. His modest piety required no mediator between God and men.