This time the Rabbi turned pale as a corpse himself. He laid down his knife and fork automatically.
"D—dead," he breathed in an awestruck whisper. "All?"
"Everyone. De same cholera took all de family."
The Rabbi covered his face with his hands. "Then poor Solomon's wife is a widow. I hope he left her enough to live upon."
"No, but it doesn't matter," said Yankelé.
"It matters a great deal," cried the Rabbi.
"She is dead," said Yankelé.
"Rebecca Schwartz dead!" screamed the Rabbi, for he had once loved the maiden himself, and, not having married her, 
"in mournful meditation." had still a tenderness for her.
"Rebecca Schwartz," repeated Yankelé inexorably.
"Was it the cholera?" faltered the Rabbi.
"No, she vas heartbroke."
Rabbi Remorse Red-herring silently pushed his plate away, and leaned his elbows upon the table and his face upon his palms, and his chin upon the bottle of schnapps in mournful meditation.
"You are not eating, Rabbi," said Yankelé insinuatingly.
"I have lost my appetite," said the Rabbi.
"Vat a pity to let food get cold and spoil! You'd better eat it."
The Rabbi shook his head querulously.
"Den I vill eat it," cried Yankelé indignantly. 'Good hot food like dat!"
