"You take Cohen's milk and refuse my honey!" shouted the Red Beadle unappeased.
"Give me of the honey of your tongue and I shall not refuse it," said Hulda, with that wonderful smile of hers which showed the white teeth Nature had made; the smile which, as always, melted the Beadle's mood. That smile could repair all the ravages of disease and give back her memoried face.
After the Beadle had been at work a day or two in the Gabbai's workshop, he broached the matter of a fellow-penitent, one Zussmann Herz, with no work and a bedridden wife.
"That Meshummad!" (apostate) cried the Gabbai." He deserves all that God has sent him."
Undaunted, the Red Beadle demonstrated that the man could not be of the missionary camp, else had he not been left to starve, one converted Jew being worth a thousand pounds of fresh subscriptions. Moreover he, the Red Beadle, had now convinced the man of his spiritual errors, and The Brotherhood of the Peoples was no longer on sale. Also, being unable to leave his wife's bedside, Zussmann would do the work at home below the Union rates prevalent in public. So, trade being brisk, the Gabbai relented and bargained, and the Red Beadle sped to his friend's abode and flew up the four flights of stairs.
"Good news!" he cried. "The Gabbai wants another hand, and he is ready to take you."
"Me?" Zussmann was paralyzed with joy and surprise.
"Now will you deny that the Idea works?" cried Hulda, her face flushed and her eyes glittering. And she fell a-coughing.
"You are right, Hulda; you are always right," cried Zussmann, in responsive radiance. "Thank God! Thank God!"
"God forgive me," muttered the Red Beadle.