He forced himself to smile, but with a great effort. "And what have I done to deserve such a punishment?"
"You hate us all, and make game of us—of us, our ways, and our language. And what good does it do you, after all, to act thus? It does not make you the less a Jew."
His face darkened. "Oh, if you only knew," he began hastily, but stopped himself there. After a short pause, he continued, with a smile: "You are mistaken. The people of Barnow have done me no wrong, nor I them. How could it be otherwise? I was born and brought up here among them."
"Oh, I know," she said, quickly; "you used to live in the garret-room in our house, you and your old mother; peace be with her!..."
His face lighted up with pleasure. "You remember those old days? I should hardly have expected it—it's eleven years ago!"
"Yes, I remember it all distinctly. We used to be great friends, you and I. And had you forgotten me?"
"Certainly not!" he said, emphatically.
Then they began to talk in a low voice, and I could hear no more of their conversation. He was probably reminding Rachel of a number of little incidents of their childhood, for a happy smile played upon her lips every now and then.
Neither of them remembered what a strange thing it must have seemed to every one present that they should have so much to say to each other in private. People began to whisper, and I heard the Platonic lover of progress say to one of her gossips, 'I saw many curious things when I was in Lemberg; but I never knew before that any girl who was engaged to be married would venture to talk so long to a stranger—I really never did!'
But at this moment they separated.