anding out
of doors, washing and scrubbing and making everything clean for the
Passover--they were not any more the Daughters of Jerusalem of whom
mention is made in the "Song of Songs." ... What has become of my "Song
of Songs" world that was, at one time, so fresh and clear and
bright--the world that was as fragrant as though filled with spices?

* * *

I found my home exactly as I had left it, years before. It was not
altered by a hair. It was not different in the least detail. My father,
too, was the same. Only his silvery-white beard had become a little more
silvery. His broad white wrinkled forehead was now a little more
wrinkled. This was probably because of his cares.... And my mother was
the same as when I saw her last. Only her ruddy cheeks were now slightly
sallow. And I imagined she had grown smaller, shorter and thinner.
Perhaps I only imagined this because she was now slightly bent. And her
eyes were slightly enflamed, and had little puffy bags under them, as if
they were swollen. Was it from weeping, perhaps?...

For what reason had my mother been weeping? For whom? Was it for me, her
only son who had acted in opposition to his father's wishes? Was it
because I would not go the same road as my father, but took my own road,
and went off to study, and did not come home for such a long time?... Or
did my mother weep for Busie, because she was getting married on the
Sabbath after the Feast of Weeks?

Ah, Busie! She was not changed by so much as a hair. She was not
different in the least detail. She had only grown up--grown up and also
grown more beautiful than she had been, more lovely. She had grown up
exactly as she had promised to grow, tall and slender, and ripe, and
full of grace. Her eyes were the same blue "Song of Songs" eyes, but
more thoughtful than in the olden times. They were more thoughtful and
more dreamy, more careworn and more beautiful "Song of Songs" eyes than
ever. And the smile on her lips was friendly, loving, homely and
affectionate. She was quiet as a dove--quiet as a virgin.

When I looked at the Busie of today, I was reminded of the Busie of the
past. I recalled to mind Busie in her new little holiday frock which my
mother had made for her, at that time, for the Passover. I remembered
the new little shoes which my father had bought for her, at that time,
for the Passover. And when I remembered the Busie of the past, there
came back to me, without an effort on my part, all over a