He opened his eyes; there were already lights burning. The room was packed with people. Beside him stood all his children, come together to take leave of their father.
He fixed his gaze on the little grandchildren, a gaze of love and gladness.
"They will see the happy time," he thought.
He was just going to ask the people to stop lamenting, but at that moment his eye caught the workmen of the evening before.
"Come here, come here, children!" and he raised his voice a little, and made a sign with his head. People did not know what he meant. He begged them to send the workmen to him, and it was done.
He tried to sit up; those around helped him.
"Thank you—children—for coming—thank you!" he said. "Stop—weeping!" he implored of the bystanders. "I want to die quietly—I want every one to—to—be as happy—as I am! Live, all of you, in the—hope of a—good time—as I die—in—that hope. Dear chil—dren—" and he turned to the workmen, "I told you—last night—how man has lived so far. How he lives now, you know for yourselves—but the coming time will be a very happy one: all will be happy—all! Only work honestly, and learn! Learn, children! Everything will be all right! All will be hap——"
A sweet smile appeared on his lips, and Reb Shloimeh died.
In the town they—but what else could they say in the town of a man who had died without repeating the Confession, without a tremor at his heart, without any sign of repentance? What else could they say of a man who spent his last minutes in telling people to learn, to educate themselves? What else could they say of a man who left his whole capital to be devoted to educational purposes and schools?
What was to be expected of them, when his own family declared in court that their father was not responsible when he made his last will?