“Ah! my ’tear Rachel. Ah! my peautiful. You loaf your old father. My liddle taughter, I gif you everything; and you loaf me very moch, eh?”
“Of course, I do. And won’t it look well with a brand-new gold chain to match?”
“Next time my child wants something, she won’t climb on the wool-bales and nearly kill herself?”
“Of course not. I shall wear it this afternoon when I go out calling.”
“Now kiss me, and run away while I make some more money for my liddle Rachel.”
The saintly face raised itself, and looked with a smile into the face of the old Jew; and then the bright red lips fixed themselves upon his wrinkled cheek.
“You are a good girl; you are my own child; you shall have everything you ask; you shall have all I’ve got to give.”
“Good-bye, father. Thanks awfully much.”
“Good-bye, Rachel.”
The girl turned; the little heels tapped regularly on the floor; the pigeon-like walk was resumed; and Rachel Varnhagen, watched by the loving eyes of her father, passed into the street.