memory.

A carriage drew up one day in front of Ascher's house. There has
evidently been a splendid crop of oats this year. Uncle Gabriel has
come. Uncle Gabriel has only lately assumed the additional character of
father-in-law to Ephraim, for he declared that none but Ephraim should
be his pet daughter's husband. And now he has come for the purpose of
having a confidential chat with Viola. There he sits, the kind-hearted,
simple-minded man, every line of his honest face eloquent with
good-humor and happiness, still guilty of an occasional violent
onslaught upon his thighs. Viola still remains his "little spit-fire."

"Now, Viola, my little spit-fire," said he. "won't you yet allow me to
talk to my Nathan about you? Upon my word, the boy can't bear the
suspense any longer."

"Uncle," says Viola, and a crimson blush dyes her pale cheeks: "Uncle,"
she repeats, in a tone of such deep earnestness, that the laughing
expression upon Gabriel's face instantly vanishes, "please don't talk
to him at all. MY place is with my father!"

And to all appearances Viola will keep her word.

Had she taken upon herself a voluntary penance for having, in her
heart's bitter despair, presumed to abjure her faith in the Sechus of
her mother? Or was there yet another reason? The heart of woman is a
strangely sensitive thing. It loves not to build its happiness upon the
hidden ruins of another's life.