to have a new clasp made for it." And without bestowing another glance
upon his child the easy-going man left the house. It was his last visit.
Within the year Gudule received a letter from her eldest brother telling
her that their father was dead, and that she would have to keep the week
of mourning for him. Ever since his last visit to her--her brother
wrote--the old man had been somewhat ailing, but knowing his vigorous
constitution, they had paid little heed to his complaints. It was only
during the last few weeks that a marked loss of strength had been
noticed. This was followed by fever and delirium. Whenever he was asked
whether he would not like to see Gudule, his only answer was: "She must
not give away the clasp of little Viola's necklet." And but an hour
before his death, he raised his voice, and loudly called for "the
letter." Nobody knew what letter. "Gudule knows where it is," he said,
with a gentle shake of his head. Those were the last words he spoke.

Had the old man's eyes deceived him on the occasion of his last visit
to his son-in-law's house? No! For, setting aside the incident of the
missing pearls, the whole Ghetto could long since have told him that the
warning of the anonymous letter was not unfounded--for Gudule was the
wife of a gambler.

With the resistless impetuosity of a torrent released from its prison
of ice and snow, the old invincible disease had again overwhelmed its
victim. Gudule noticed the first signs of it when one day her husband
returned home from one of his business journeys earlier than he had
arranged. Gudule had not expected him.

"Why did you not come to meet me with the children?" he cried peevishly;
"do you begrudge me even that pleasure?"