“Would you like to know,” Gudule suddenly cried, with uplifted voice, “what this Sechûs is like? It has the form of an angel, and it stands near the Throne of the Almighty.... But, since the days of Rachel, our mother, it is the Sechûs of a mother that finds most favor in God's eyes. When a mother dies, her soul straightway soars heavenward, and there it takes its place amid the others.
“'Who art thou?' asks God, 'I am the Sechûs of a mother,' is the answer, 'of a mother who has left children behind her on earth.' 'Then do thou stand here and keep guard over them!' says God. And when it is well with the children, it is the Sechûs of a mother which has caused them to prosper, and when evil days befall them... it is again the Angel who stands before God and pleads: 'Dost Thou forget that these children no longer have a mother?'... and the evil is averted....”
Gudule's voice had sunk to a mere whisper. Her eyes closed, her head fell back, her breathing became slower and more labored. “Are you still there, children?” she softly whispered.
Anxiously they bent over her. Then once again she opened her eyes, “I see you still”—the words came with difficulty from her blanched lips—“you, Ephraim, and you, my little Viola.... I am sure my Sechûs will plead for you... for you and your father.” They were Gudule's last words. When her children, whose eyes had never as yet been confronted with Death, called her by her name, covering her icy hands with burning kisses, their mother was no more....
Who can tell what influence causes the downtrodden blade to raise itself once more! Is it the vivifying breath of the west wind, or a mysterious power sent forth from the bosom of Mother Earth? It was a touching sight to see how those two children, crushed as they were beneath the weight of a twofold blow, raised their heads again, and in their very desolation found new-born strength. And it filled the Ghetto with wonder. For what were they but the offspring of a gambler? Or was it the spirit of Gudule, their mother, that lived in them?
After Gudule's death, her eldest brother, the then owner of the grange, came over to discuss the future of his sister's children. He wished Ephraim and Viola to go with him to his home in Lower Bohemia, where he could find them occupation. The children, however, were opposed to the idea. They had taken no previous counsel together, yet, upon this point, both were in perfect accord,—they would prefer to be left in their old home.
“When father comes back again,” said Eph-raim, “he must know where to find us. But to you, Uncle Gabriel, he would never come.”
The uncle then insisted that Viola at least should accompany him, for he had daughters at home whom she could assist in their duties in the house and on the farm. But the child clung to Ephraim, and with flaming eyes, and in a voice of proud disdain, which filled the simple farmer with something like terror, she cried:
“Uncle, you have enough to do to provide for your own daughters; don't let me be an additional burden upon you; besides, sooner would I wander destitute through the world than be separated from my brother.”
“And what do you propose to do then?” exclaimed the uncle, after he had somewhat recovered from his astonishment at Viola's vehemence.