"I heard a great noise in the street, and went out to see"
"What does it matter?" said Israel Kensky. "Save your breath, little daughter. Why should you not walk in the street if you desire?"
He switched on the light to augment the red glow which came from the fire.
"Sit down, Sophia," he said, "I have been waiting for you. I heard you go out."
She made no reply. There was fear in her eyes, and all the time she was conscious of many unpleasant interviews with her father—interviews which had taken place in Kieff and in other towns—the details of which she could never recall. And she was filled with a dread of some happening to which she could not give form or description. He saw her shifting in her chair and smiled slowly.
"Get me the little box which is on my dressing-table, Sophia Kensky," he said.
He was seated by the fire, his hands outstretched to the red coal. After a moment's hesitation she got up, went to the dressing-table, and brought back a small box. It was heavy and made of some metal over which a brilliant black enamel had been laid.
"Open the box, Sophia Kensky," said the old man, not turning his head.
She had a dim recollection that she had been
