Morning came at last. The rain had ceased falling, and the last clouds were being driven by the wind across the leaden sky. In the east the sun was beginning to redden, and send its first bright rays upon the sodden plain: it had also penetrated to Nathan's parlor.
It found him still awake, but he was no longer restless, or speaking to himself. He stood quietly by the window, his face turned toward the east. The reflection of the sunrise lighted up his pale worn face, on which the calmness and peace of determined action were expressed. His eyes were fixed steadily on the east, and he seemed to be praying, though his lips did not move.
He had stood there a long time communing with God in the silence of the early morning.
The other inmates of the house began to stir. The servants held whispered consultations; they guessed that something unusual had happened.
Chane left her room. Her face was pale, and her eyes were red with weeping. She approached Nathan with bent head.
"Chane," he said, gently, "I have made up my mind. I hope that what I mean to do will be for the best for you—and for him. As for me, our God is a merciful God—He will not forsake me."
He spoke the last words in so low a voice that she did not hear them. She blushed deeply, but did not speak. A moment later she hurried from the room, and after a long absence, returned with his breakfast.
That done, they went to the synagogue together as usual; and no one seeing them had the least idea of the agony of heart they were both enduring.
"Thank God! there is nothing wrong," said old Jutta to the other maid-servant when she saw them come home together, and sit down to their dinner as usual.