interpreter on the premises

  "What says he?" helplessly inquired Moses, addressing himself to the newcomer.   "Isn't it a sad case, Mr. Coleman?" said the matron, in a low tone. "They can't understand each other."   "You ought to keep an interpreter on the premises," said the doctor, blowing his nose. Coleman struggled with himself. He knew the jargon to perfection, for his parents spoke it still, but he had always posed as being ignorant of it.   "Tell my father to go home, and not to bother; I'm all right--only a little weak," whispered Benjamin.   Coleman was deeply perturbed. He was wondering whether he should plead guilty to a little knowledge, when a change of expression came over the wan face on the pillow. The doctor came and felt the boy's pulse.   "No, I don't want to hear that _Maaseh_," cried Benjamin. "Tell me about the Sambatyon, father, which refuses to flow on _Shabbos_."   He spoke Yiddish, grown a child again. Moses's face lit up with joy. His eldest born had returned to intelligibility. There was hope still then. A sudden burst of sunshine flooded the room. In London the sun would not break through the clouds for some hours. Moses leaned over the pillow, his face working with blended emotions. Me let a hot tear fall on his boy's upturned face.   "Hush, hush, my little Benjamin, don't cry," said Benjamin, and began to sing in his mothers jargon:     "Sleep, little father, sleep, Thy father shall be a Rav, Thy mother shall bring little apples, Blessings on thy little head,"     Moses saw his dead Gittel lulling his boy to sleep. Blinded by his tears, he did not see that they were falling thick upon the little white face.