Moisheh nudged me confidentially. “Teacherin! See only how a little holiday lifts up my mammeniu! Don’t it dance from her eyes the joy like from a young girl?”
“Stop already making fun from your old mother.”
“You old?” Moisheh put his strong arm around his mother’s waist. “Why, people think we’re a young couple on our honeymoon.”
“Honeymoon—ach!” The faded face shone with inward visioning. “My only wish is to see for my eyes my sons marry themselves in good luck. What’s my life—but only the little hope from my children? To dance with the bride on my son’s wedding will make me the happiest mother from America.”
“Feivel will soon give you that happiness,” responded Moisheh. “You know how the richest American-born girls are trying to catch on to him. And no matter how grand the girl he’ll marry himself to, you’ll have the first place of honour by the wedding.”
As we turned in at Forty-fifth Street a curious crowd blocked our path. A row of sleek limousines stood before the arched entrance of the Van Suydden Hotel.
“Look only—a wedding! Let’s give a look on the bride!” exclaimed Moisheh’s mother, eagerly. A wedding was, in her religion, the most significant ceremony in life. And for her sake we elbowed our way towards the front.
A procession of bridesmaids in shimmering chiffons, bedecked with flowers, were the first to tread the carpeted steps.
Then we saw the bride.... And then——Good God!—was it possible?
Moisheh clutched his mother’s hand convulsively. Could it really be their Feivel?