"Let me take one of your books to keep in remembrance of you?"
"You cannot read them; they are written in German and English."
"That does not matter. Their presence would remind me of you. Besides I might learn to read them."
"But if a strange book is found in your possession it will be taken from you."
"I will conceal it."
Philip reflected a moment; then carefully selecting two books, he presented them to the overjoyed boy.
"Remember," he said, "that ignorance is frequently bliss. A Rabbi once said: 'Beware of the conceit of learning.' It is often well to say, 'I don't know.'"
Then the American spoke of the difficulties he had experienced in acquiring an education, how he had worked at a trade by day and gone to school during the evening. Mendel had a thousand questions to ask, which Philip answered graciously; but the packing having come to an end, and Mendel having exhausted his inquiries and finding no further excuse to remain, the two bade each other an affectionate farewell. Mendel ran home with his sacred treasures carefully concealed under his blouse, and with great solicitude he locked them up in an old closet which served as his wardrobe. The following morning Philip and his parents were escorted to the limits of the city by the influential Jews of Kief, and the travellers started upon their long voyage to America.
During the next few weeks Mendel was at his Talmudic studies in the jeschiva as usual, but there was a decided change in his manner—a certain listlessness, a lack of interest, which were so apparent that Rabbi Jeiteles could not but observe them.
"I fear that the boy has been studying too hard," he said to his wife one day. "We must induce him to take more exercise."