ly it was! How beautiful! How fragrant of the
Passover! How like the "Song of Songs"! It was a sin to be indoors. Soon
the day would be at an end. Lower and lower sank the sun, painting the
sky the colour of guinea-gold. The gold was reflected in Busie's eyes.
They were bathed in gold. Soon, soon, the day would be dead. And I
would have no time to say a single word to Busie. The whole day was
spent in talking idly with my father and my mother, my relatives and
friends, telling them of all that I had heard, and all that I had seen.
I jumped up, and went over to the window. I looked out of it. As I was
passing her, I said quickly to Busie:

"Perhaps we should go out for a while? It is so long since I was at
home. I want to see everything. I want to have a look at the village."

* * *

Can you tell me what was the matter with Busie? Her cheeks were at once
enflamed. They burned with a great fire. She was as red as the sun that
was going down in the west. She threw a glance at my father. I imagined
she wanted to hear what my father would say. And my father looked at my
mother, over his silver spectacles. He stroked the silver strands of his
silvery-white beard, and said casually, to no one in particular:

"The sun is setting. It's time to put on our Festival garments, and to
go into the synagogue to pray. It is time to light the Festival candles.
What do you say?"

No! It seemed that I was not going to get the chance of saying anything
to Busie that day. We went off to change our garments. My mother had
finished her work. She had put on her new silk Passover gown. Her white
hands gleamed. No one has such beautiful white hands as my mother. Soon
she will make the blessing over the Festival candles. She will cover her
eyes with her snow-white hands and weep silently, as she used to do
once on a time, years ago. The last lingering rays of the setting sun
will play on her beautiful, transparent white hands. No one has such
beautiful, white transparent hands as my mother.

But what is the matter with Busie? The light has gone out of her face
just as it is going out of the sun that is slowly setting in the west,
and as it is going out of the day that is slowly dying. But she is
beautiful, and graceful as never before. And there is a deep sadness in
her beautiful blue "Song of Songs" eyes. They are very thoughtful, are
Busie's eyes.

What is Busie thinking of now? Of the loving guest for whom she had
waited, and who had co