“A father out of jail!” sobbed Viola, as she released herself from her brother's arms.
“He has had his punishment, dear Viola!” said Ephraim softly.
Viola turned away. There was a painful silence, and then she looked up at her brother again. Her face was aglow, her eyes sparkled with a strange fire; she was trembling with agitation.
Never before had Ephraim seen her thus.
“Ephraim, my brother,” she commenced, in that measured monotone so peculiar to intense emotion, “with the bird you can do as you please. You can set it free, or, if you like, you can wring its neck. But as for him, I 'll never look in his face again, from me he shall not have a word of welcome. He broke our mother's heart... our good, good mother; he has dishonored himself and us. And I can never forget it.”
“Is it right for a child to talk like that of her own father?” said Ephraim in a tremulous voice.
“When a child has good cause to be ashamed of her own father!” cried Viola.
“Oh, my Viola, you must have forgotten dear mother's dying words. Don't you remember, as she opened her eyes for the last time, how she gathered up her failing strength, and raising herself in her bed, 'Children,' she said, 'my memory will protect you both, yea, and your father too.' Viola, have you forgotten?”
Had you entered that little room an hour later, a touching sight would have met your eyes. Viola was seated on her brother's knee, her arms round his neck, whilst Ephraim with the gentle love of a brother for a younger sister, was stroking her hair, and whispering in her ear sweet words of solace.
The bird-cage was empty.... That evening Ephraim sat up till midnight. Outside in the Ghetto reigned the stillness of night.