"Reb Nohim was very angry and went away—Reb Isaak did not come, because he knew from his fathers that as long as Freida lives nobody touched the old bookcase—Freida has watched over her husband's treasure; it remains there and sleeps in peace."
With these last words the old woman pointed her thin hand at the bookcase, which stood not far from her, and a quiet laugh, a laugh of joy and almost childish triumph, shook her aged breast.
With one bound Meir reached the bookcase, and with a powerful hand shook the old, rusty lock. The door flew open and a cloud of dust burst forth which covered Meir's head as it had once—long ago—covered Hersh's golden hair and Freida's white turban. He did not heed it, but plunged his hand amongst the books from which his ancestors, had drawn their wisdom and where that lay hidden which was to direct him on his way.
At the sight of the open bookcase and the clouds of dust Freida stretched forth both arms and called out:
"Hersh! Hersh! my own Hersh!"
It was not the usual tuneless whisper, but a loud cry wrung from the heart, full of the joys and griefs of the past. She had forgotten the great-grandson, and thought the tall, golden-haired youth, covered with dust, was her husband come back to her from unknown worlds.
Meir turned his excited face and burning eyes to her.
"Bobe!" he said breathlessly, "where is it? On the top? Below? In this book—that—or that?"
"In that," said the woman, pointing at the book upon which Meir's hand rested.
Presently a roll of yellow papers rustled under the parchment cover of the volume. Holding them in both hands, Meir fell down before his great-grandmother and kissed her hands and feet.