"This brought me," said Countess, touching the child. "I was under vow to save him. And--well, I could not do it otherwise."

"Is he alive?" asked Christian pityingly.

"Yes, only very fast asleep. Lay him down with your little ones, and wrap this coverlet over them all, which has sheltered us in our journey."

It was a down coverlet of rich damask silk. Christian's fingers touched it as with a feeling of strangeness, and yet familiarity--as a handling of something long unfelt, but well-known years ago.

"I have nothing to offer you save a crust of barley bread," she said hesitatingly. "I am sorry for it, but it is really all I have."

"Then," said Countess with a smile, "play the widow of Zarephath. Give me thy 'little cake,' and when the light dawns, you shall have a new cruse and barrel in reward."

"Nay, we look for no reward," answered Christian heartily. "I am only grieved that it should be so little. You are spent with your journey."

"I am most spent with the weight. I had to carry the child, and this,"

she replied, touching a large square parcel, tied in a silk handkerchief round her waist. "It is the child's property--all he has in the world.

May the Blessed One be praised that I have saved them both!"

"'To them that have no might, He increaseth strength,'" quoted Christian softly. "Then--is not this your child?"

"Yes--now."

"But not--?"

"By gift, not by birth. And it is the Holy One who has given him. Now, good friends, let me not keep you from sleeping. Perhaps I shall sleep myself. We will talk more in the morning."

It was evident when the morning arrived, that the saved child had suffered less than she who had saved him. Both needed care, nourishment, and rest; but Countess wanted it far more than Rudolph. A few days sufficed to restore him to his usual lively good health; but it was weeks ere she recovered the physical strain and mental suffering of that terrible night. But Countess was one of those people who never either "give in" or "give up." Before any one but herself thought her half fit for it, she went out, not mentioning her destination, on an expedition which occupied the greater part of a day, and returned at night with a satisfied expression on her face.

"I have settled every thing," she said. "And now I will tell you something. Perhaps you were puzzled to know why I sought shelter with you, instead of going to some of my wealthy acquaintances in the town?"

"I was, very much," answered Christian hesitatingly.

"I supposed you had some reason for it," said David.

"Right. I had a reason--a strong one. That I shall not tell you at present. But I will tell you what perhaps you have already guessed-- that I have been divorced from Leo."

"Well, I fancied you must have had a quarrel with him, or something of that kind," replied Christian.

"Oh, we are on excellent terms," said Countess in a rather sarcastic tone. "So excellent, that he even proposed himself to lend me an escort of armed retainers to convey me to London."

"To London!" exclaimed Christian, in some surprise. "I thought you would be going back to your father's house at Oxford."

"Oh, no!--that would not do at all. I did think of it for a moment; not now. London will be much better."

"May I take the liberty to ask how you mean to live?" said David. "Of course it is no business of mine, but--"

"Go on," said Countess, when he hesitated.

"Well, I don't quite see what you can do, without either husband or father. Perhaps your brother Rubi is coming with you? You can't live alone, surely."

"I could, and get along very well, too; but I suppose one must not defy the world, foolish thing as it is. No, my brother Rubi is not coming, and I don't want him either. But I want you--David and Ruth."

David and Ruth--as Countess persisted in calling her--looked at each other in surprise and perplexity.

"You can take a week to think about it," resumed Countess, in her coolest manner, which was very cool indeed. "I shall not set forth until the Sabbath is over. But I do not suppose you are so deeply in love with this hovel that you could not bring yourselves to leave it behind."

"What do you mean us to do or be?"

"I intend to set up a silversmith's and jeweller's shop, and I mean David to be the silversmith, and to train Rudolph to the business."

This sounded practical. David's heart leaped within him, at the thought of returning to his old status and occupation.

"I could do that," he said, with a gleam in his eyes.

"I know you could," replied Countess.

"And _I_?" suggested Christian wistfully.

"You may see to the house, and keep the children out of mischief. We shall want some cooking and cleaning, I suppose; and I hate it."

"Do you take no servants with you?" asked Christian, in an astonished tone. For a rich lady like Countess to travel without a full establishment, both of servants and furniture, was amazing to her.

"I take the child with me," said Countess.

Christian wondered why the one should hinder the other; but she said no more.

"But--" David began, and stopped.

"I would rather hear all the objections before I set forth," responded Countess calmly.

"Countess, you must clearly understand that we cannot deny our faith."

"Who asked you to do so?"

"Nor can we hide it."

"That is your own affair. Do Christians clean silver worse than Jews?"

"They should not, if they are real Christians and not mere pretenders."

"Shams--I hate shams. Don't be a sham anything. Please yourself whether you are a Jew or a Christian, but for goodness' sake don't be a sham."

"I hope I am not that," said David. "If you are content with us, Countess, my wife and I will be only too happy to go with you. The children--"

"Oh, you don't fancy leaving them behind? Very well--they can play with Rudolph, and pull the cat's tail."

"I shall whip them if they do," said Christian, referring not to Rudolph, but to the cat.

"Countess, do you mean to cut yourself off from all your friends?" asked David, with a mixed feeling of perplexity and pity. "I cannot understand why you should do so."