gain, phrase by
phrase, and chapter by chapter, the long-forgotten "Song of Songs."

"Thou hast doves' eyes within thy locks: thy hair is as a flock of
goats, that appear from mount Gilead.

"Thy teeth are like a flock of sheep that are even shorn, which come up
from the washing: whereof every one bear twins, and none is barren among
them.

"Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy speech is comely: thy
temples are like a piece of pomegranate within thy locks."

I look at Busie, and once again everything is as in the "Song of Songs,"
just as it was in the past, once on a time, years before.

* * *

"Busie, am I to congratulate you?"

She does not hear me. But why does she lower her eyes? And why have her
cheeks turned scarlet? No, I must bid her joy--I must!

"I congratulate you, Busie."

"May you live in happiness," she replies.

And that is all. I could ask her nothing. And to talk with her? There
was nowhere where I might do that. My father would not let me talk with
her. My mother hindered me. Our relatives prevented it. The rest of the
family, the friends, neighbours and acquaintances who flocked into the
house to welcome me, one coming and one going--they would not let me
talk with Busie either. They all stood around me. They all examined me,
as if I were a bear, or a curious creature from another world. Everybody
wanted to see and hear me--to know how I was getting on, and what I was
doing. They had not seen me for such a long time.

"Tell us something new. What have you seen? What have you heard?"

And I told them the news--all that I had seen and all that I had heard.
At the same time I was looking at Busie. I was searching for her eyes.
And I met her eyes--her big, deep, careworn, thoughtful, beautiful blue
"Song of Songs" eyes. But her eyes were dumb, and she herself was dumb.
Her eyes told me nothing--nothing at all. And there arose to my memory
the words I had learnt in the past, the "Song of Songs" sentence by
sentence--

"A garden inclosed is my sister, my spouse: a spring shut up, a fountain
sealed."

* * *

And a storm arose within my brain, and a fire began to burn within my
heart. This terrible fire did not rage against anybody, only against
myself--against myself and against my dreams of the past--the foolish,
boyish, golden dreams for the sake of which I had left my father and my
mother. Because of those dreams I had forgotten Busie. Because of them I
had sacrificed a great