The Yoke of the Thorah. Harland Henry

a turkey at the other.

      “Well, I declare, Chris, this is quite jolly, ain't it? To have company to dinner! We two—she and I, Mr. Bacharach—we generally dine alone; and as we've told each other about all either of us knows, time and time again, we don't find it particularly lively; do we, Chris? Now, Mr. Bacharach, I know that you Israelites—excuse me—you foreigners—don't drink ice-water with your meals; but as I haven't got any wine to offer you, I'll send out for some beer. Mary!”

      The maid appeared; and old Redwood instructed her to purchase a quart of beer at the corner liquor store. “You'll have to go in by the side-door, Mary, because it's Sunday. And if any policeman should ask what you've got in the pitcher, tell him it's milk. Don't be afraid. If he takes you up, I'll go bail for you. Ha-ha-ha!”

      “Father!” cried Christine, with a glance at once beseeching and reproachful.

      “Beer,” the old man continued, moderating his hilarity, and adopting a commentative tone, “beer is a great drink, mild, refreshing, wholesome. And it's done a sight of good for temperance, too—more than all your total abstinence orators and blue-rib-bonites put together. I'm very fond of it, and always drink it with my lunch, down-town. There's a saloon just under my shop. But Chris there, she can't abide it, on account of the bitter. She likes wine—and wine—not being a capitalist—I call an extravagance.”

      “Yes,” said Christine, “I think wine is perfectly delicious; and so pretty to look at, with its deep red or yellow. Once a friend of father's sent us a whole box of wine—Rhine wine—and——”

      “And,” old Redwood interrupted, “and that innocent appearing young woman there, sir, she disposed of every blessed drop of it; she did, for a fact. What do you think of that?”

      “Oh, father,” protested Christine, blushing beautifully, “you ought not to say such a thing. Mr. Bacharach might believe you.”

      “Well, any how, I wish we had some of it left to offer you, Mr. Bacharach,” said Redwood. “But here comes the beer.”

      “Oh, by the way,” put in Elias, addressing himself to Christine, “did you know? They're going to give the 'Damnation of Faust' at the Symphony rehearsal Friday afternoon—the great work of Berlioz. Have you ever heard it?”

      “No; but I have heard selections from it. I wish”—bringing her eyes to bear upon her father—“I wish I could go.”

      “Well, why don't ye? Who's to prevent ye?”

      “Will you take me?”

      “Not I. But, Great Scott, what's the use of being a pretty young girl if you've got to drag your aged father around after you? Why don't you get some young man? I'll bet there are twenty young fellows in this town, who'd only be too glad. But she, Mr. Bacharach, she scares them all away, with her high and mighty manners. She's too particular. She'll die an old maid, mark my words.”

      Elias caught a glimpse of a golden opportunity. “I wish, Miss Redwood, I wish you would go with me,” he ventured, a little timidly, and waited anxiously for her response.

      “There you are, Chris!” cried her father. “There's your chance! But”—turning to Elias—“but she won't. You see if she will.”

      “Oh, thank you, Mr. Bacharach? That's lovely. I'll go with the very greatest pleasure.”

      Her eyes lighted up; and leaving her seat, she ran around the table, and deposited a wholly irrelevant kiss upon her father's forehead.

      “Ha-ha-ha!” laughed that gentleman, clapping his hands. “You're the first young fellow I've seen, Mr. Bacharach, who she thought was good enough for her. By George, Chris, there's hope for you, after all.”

      “Oh,” cried Christine, “I'm so glad. I never wanted any thing more in my life, than I did to hear the—the—it sounds awfully profane, doesn't it?—'Damnation of Faust.'”

      “Well, now,” said the old man, “there's nothing like killing two birds with one stone. So what I propose is this: I propose that you come up here Friday forenoon, Mr. Bacharach; and then you can work for a while at her portrait. Afterward she'll give you a bite of lunch—won't ye, Chris?—and you can tote her off to the concert. By the way, where does it take place? At the Academy?”

      “No; at Steinway Hall.”

      “And when does it let out?”

      “At about half-past four, I think.”

      “All right. Then I'll meet you at the door when it's over—my shop, you know, is just around the corner—I'll meet you at the door and save you the trouble of bringing her home. How does that suit, eh?”

      “Very well,” said Elias; but he thought that he should not have minded the trouble of bringing her home.

      When he returned to the quiet, dark house on Stuyvesant Square, late that afternoon, he sat down at the big window of his studio, and went over the happenings of the day. He felt wonderfully lighthearted, wonderfully elated, as though he had drunken of some subtle stimulant. What a pleasant, interesting city New York was, after all! How thoroughly one could enjoy one's self in it! The noises of it, mingling in a confused, continuous rumble, and falling upon his ears, sounded like the voice of a good old friend. It was an old friend's face that greeted him, as he looked out upon the bare trees in the park. Every now and then he drew a deep, tremulous, audible breath. The colors faded from the sky. Dusk gathered. The bell of St. George's Church rang to vespers. The street lamps were lighted. It got dark. Elias did not stir.

      “Oh, what a sweet, natural, beautiful girl!” he was soliloquizing. “And what a rough old bear of a father! And what—what a heavenly time we'll have on Friday!”

      He marveled at himself, it gave him such a swift, exultant thrill to think of Friday; but the obvious psychological explanation of it, he never once suspected.

IV.

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      TOWARD the close of Friday's sitting Elias said: “You know, Berlioz has taken great liberties with Goethe's text—quite altered the story, indeed, and given it an ending to suit himself.”

      “That won't matter much to me,” responded Christine, “because I've never read 'Faust,' and I have only the vaguest notion of what the story is.”

      “Did it suffer a like fate to 'Wilhelm Meister's?'”

      “No; but I can't read German, and I didn't know whether there was any good translation. Is there?”

      “Oh, yes; 'Bayard Taylor's is beautiful. You ought to read it.”

      “Then, besides, I had an idea that it was very deep and obscure—very hard to understand. Do you think I could understand it?”

      “I'm sure you could—all that's essential. You could get the story and the human nature. I believe you'd find it even more moving than 'Adam Bede.'”

      “Can't you tell me the story? Won't you tell it to me now?”

      “Oh, I should only spoil it.”

      But Christine begged him to give her the outline of it, pleading that she would enjoy the music so much more intelligently if she were not altogether ignorant of the plot. So, during their luncheon, Elias related as best he could something of the love-story of Faust and Margaret. Christine listened with bated breath, and wide eyes fastened upon his face; and at its conclusion she drew a profound sigh, and murmured: “Oh, how sad, how sad!”

      “Now,” said Elias, “I must explain how Berlioz has tampered with it.” Which he proceeded to do.

      They walked as far