“Well, what then?”
“‘What then?’ O Licorice!”
“I do wish thou wouldst speak sense!—what art thou driving at?”
“Thou art hard to please, wife. If I speak plainly thou wilt not hear me out, and if I only hint thou chidest me for want of plainness. Well! if thou canst not see ‘what then,’ never mind. I thought those sorrowful words of my poor child might have touched thy heart. I can assure thee, they did mine, when I heard of them. They have never been out of mine ears since.”
It seemed plain to Belasez that her mother was being rebuked for want of motherly tenderness, and, as she doubted not, towards Anegay. This mysterious person, then, must have been a sister of whom she had never heard,—probably much older than herself.
“What a lot of soft down must have been used up to make thine heart!” was the cynical reply of Licorice.
“I cannot help it, Licorice. I have her eyes ever before me—hers, and his. It is of no use scolding me—I cannot help it. And if it be as thou thinkest, I cannot break the child’s heart. I shall not speak to Hamon, nor the Cohen.”
“Faint-hearted Gentile!” blazed forth Licorice.
“Get it over, wife,” said Abraham, quietly. “I will try to find out if thou hast guessed rightly; though it were rather work for thee than me, if—well, I will do my best. But suppose I should find that she has given her maiden heart to some Gentile,—what am I to do then?”
“Do! What did Phinehas the son of Eleazar the priest unto Zimri and Cozbi? Hath not the Blessed One commanded, saying, ‘Thy daughter thou shalt not give unto his son’? What meanest thou? Do! Couldst thou do too much, even if they were offered upon the altar before the God of Sabaoth?”