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The family, summoned from four different states in the Union, had as sembled in the old Cincinnati home Eric, the youngest son, a flourishing young writer of scenarios, was has tening from Hollywood to join them. When he came on the morrow they would have the funeral. It was hard to sit around the old fashioned dining room table without mother behind the coffee percolator even the three grandchildren felt that, for the aged woman who now lay sleeping the long sleep in the front bedroom upstairs had won their love as she had claimed the affection of every one whose life she had touched even remotely in her eighty-odd busy years. Twelve-year-old Martin re membered with a lump in his throat the bicycle she had given him on his last birthday his sister, Lucy, too young to remember her grandfather's death, had slipped into her place be side him, white and awed at her first glimpse of the great mystery. Their pretty cousin, Minnie, called home from her college in the east, came to the table red-eyed, with quivering lips. She had been Mrs. Levine's first and favorite grandchild in a certain vague sense her namesake. Her moth er, Mrs. Sigmund Cohen, confided to Minnie's bachelor uncle, Ed Levine, that the child was entirely too sensi tive and always took everything too hard. Mrs. Cohen, being a conscien tious mother of the good old-fashioned sort, prided herself she knew every thought that flitted through Min nie's pretty curly head. She would have been considerably agitated to learn that Minnie had spent more than one sleepless night before she had re ceived the telegram summoning her to her grandmother's funeral. Hannah—none of the Levine children had ever heard her last name—came in with old Mrs. Levine's favorite des sert, her famous floating island, on a tray. Her hands trembled as she passed out the little glass dishes. Belle Martin, the oldest daughter of the house, looked across the table at her husband and shivered a little. He had grown very gray the last few years like Hannah, so long regarded a fixture of the Levine household, he was almost ready to drop out of the race, go the way of that once active mother of hers, now resting so quietly upstairs. She realized suddenly that Hannah was talking to her and forced herself to listen. "Miss Belle," said the gaunt, sharp faced woman, using the name she had not learned to lay aside when Belle had gone to a home of her own, "Miss Belle, seeing you're the oldest, I guess you ought to have the letter your ma had me write for her the other night. Just after her stroke before she stopped speaking altogeth er." She took a folded paper from her apron pocket and placed it be side Belle's plate. "When your pa died ten years ago next spring," she went on in her passionless monotone, "I promised her I'd stick by her as long as I lived. And I done it. She never treated me like no hired girl since then. She remembered how I TT THE JEWISH came to work for her here in this very house the first year she got mar ried I've been with her ever since. She always said these last years she hoped she'd go first and I could lay her out she talked about it a lot lately." Ed Levine shifted uneasily in his chair. Death was never a pleasant thing to contemplate, even in the midst of his comfortable, well-fed ex istence tonight, with his mother's funeral to be discussed, he shrank from the thought more than ever. "If T'd known she was feeling bad lately I could've given up my rooms at the hotel and come and lived here," he mumbled, more touched than he liked to admit by the thought of the frail old lady clinging to the old servant's hand as she neared the shadows. "A grand lady," repeated Hannah. "She had a lot of patience with me when I was trying to learn to cook Jewish ways. I was green in them days and didn't know much, but she learned me. She often told me she had a hard time herself learning to keep things kcsher in the kitchen, but your father's mother was so particu lar, she just had to." This time it was not only Ed who stirred uneasily. All of the Levine children had heard at one time or an other that their mothe/.i had not been born a Jewess. Yet before she died, the carping old grandmother had con fessed that Mary Levine was as good a Jewess as she was. Mary Macguire, the daughter of another faith, had like Ruth of old accepted the people and the God of her husband she had been a Jewish mother in the best sense of the word, had reared her chil dren most carefully in the faith of their father. Even the youngest son, for whose coming the funeral waited, even Eric, with all the waywardness the others liked to attribute to his artistic temperament, still remem bered to attend service on the fall holy days. So it was something of a shock to be reminded that Mary Le vine had not always been a Jew. Minnie leaned forward eagerly. "I never knew grandma wasn't Jewish," she said, her voice sounding curiously strained in the stillness. "She became a Jewess when she married. It didn't make any differ ence," her Uncle Ed assured her. "Oh!" Minnie said nothing more, but a strange look of relief crept over her white face. Perhaps, she thought, it wouldn't be so hard to break the news to the family after all. None of her uncles and aunts had intermar ried there was a strong family feel ing against it. But if George really were willing to give up his own re ligion, just as grandma had done, why should anybody object? Everybody i Wmlly Journal of Modern Jewish Life and Labors VOL. St. Paul and Minneapolis—Friday, April 7,1922 No. 31 Mary Levine—Nee MacGuire A Story by Elma Ehrlich Levinger (Copyright* 1922, by Elma Ehrlich Levinger, all rights reserved) »«»*P"«!f,lfiPf»9^,*^l!PW know how happy Grandma, and Grand pa Levine had always been—and grandma wasn't really a Jewess! A warm color flushed her cheeks. How silly she had been to tell George she wouldn't marry him—that people with two different religions might make a dreadful mess of it. She would tell her parents all about it right after the funeral and when she went back to college, she'd send for George and —the old-fashioned dining room faded away and Minnie was crossing the campus with her boyish lover and the two laughed at time and change and decay and vowed that not even death would come between them! But the dream picture faded away at her mother's crisp words. "What's in mother's letter, Belle?" Old Hannah, already at the door which led into the kitchen, turned back, her habitual respect struggling with her desire to soften the blow she knew was about to fall upon those she liked to consider "her family." She had baked them cookies and con structed wonderful toys for them long ago, had helped their mother nurse them through a dozen illnesses, had helped to dress the daughters of the house upon their wedding days. For a minute it seemed that they were of her own flesh and blood and she yearned over them as theij own mother might have done. "You're not to think she wasn't pretty happy most of the time," she blurted out at last. "Your pa was always good to her." "What are you driving at, Han nah?" Ed's voice had taken on a sharp edge. "You'd better read your ma's let ter out loud," parried Hannah, turn ing to Belle, who sat white and stricken, the bit of paper in her hand. "It—it isn't much," Belle stam mered. "It just says mother wants to be buried as a Catholic—from St. Stephen's Church—and a mass—and everything they have. She says Han nah will attend to it for us." "I promised her I would," affirmed Hannah from her place in the door way. "You know I'm a good Catholic and I know what ought to be done." "But I don't understand." Ed was speaking again. "Mother never gave up being Jewish—she never kept any of the Catholic customs. Or, maybe, she did—" with a glance of quick suspicion for the old servant who stood before them, her wrinkled hands working with the crocheted edge of her apron. Hannah shook her head. "I think she wanted to," she considered slow ly. "But she didn't want to hurt none of you. She never said nothing about it to me while your pa was alive. They was crazy over each ORLD iPii^ijilli^j^i^j,^ iy*. other and I guess she couldn't bear to bring any trouble on him. He was •always good to her. But just before she died shetold me once a girl's better off if she don't marry out of her religion. Her people wouldn't have nothing to do with her after she got married and she never got on any too well with the Levines. At first she always thought they didn't care for her 'cause she wasn't born Jewish and her ways were terribly different, even if she tried to do everything right for your pa's sake. It was hard on her—awfully hard." "But she never spoke a word of this to any of us." Mrs. Sigmund Cohen was too horrified at the reve lation to notice how pale Minnie had grown as she listened. "She couldn't worry you neither." Hannah's quiet voice grew a little scornful. "She was a grand mother, used to bearing all your troubles— she wasn't the one to bother her children with hers. But it bothered her—she told me once she felt lonely sometimes—as if you didn't belong to her really." "Did she—?" Ed found it hard to go on. "Did she send for a priest be fore she died?" Hannah shook her head. "I asked her if. I should get somebody from St. Stephen's where I always go my self on Sundays to early Mass, but she said no. She said wait a little, but write down about the funeral in case she got bad quick and couldn't tell me. And then she got uncon scious all of a sudden and didn't know anything more till she died. So I knew it didn't trouble her not to have a priest and I didn't know how yor? children would take it if you don't want people to know about her last wishes—if you don't want her to have a funeral like she planned—well,' I ain't going to say nothing about it to anybody," promised Hannah. "We'll see, we'll see." Belle spoke with nervous intensity. "And to think poor mother felt that way all these years! It's what I've heard her say so many times—it's safer to mar ry in your own religion." "It certainly is," agreed Mrs. Sig mund Cohen. Several hours later she woke to hear a sound of muffled sobbing from the next room where her daughter Minnie slept. Minnie, who had shat tered to bits her dream picture of a reunion on the campus, of a love that would always stay beautiful and young, had determined to say good bye to George when she returned to college. But her mother knew nothing of all this. "Just hear Minnie crying over her grandma," she whispered to her husband. "I never saw a child with such a good heart!" Charles Greco, the famous Boston architect, was especially invited by the Boston Society of Architects to exhibit his greatest work of the past year. He has responded with a plas ter cast model of the proposed Jewish synagogue to be built at Cleveland, Ohio, within the year.