me flying home so unexpectedly, after a long, long
absence from home?... Or is she thinking of her mother, who married
again, and went off somewhere far, and who forgot that she had a
daughter whose name was Busie?... Or is Busie now thinking of her
betrothed, her affianced husband whom, probably, my father and mother
were compelling her to marry against her own inclinations?... Or is she
thinking of her marriage that is going to take place on the Sabbath
after the Feast of Weeks, to a man she does not know, and does not
understand? Who is he, and what is he?... Or, perhaps, on the contrary,
I am mistaken? Perhaps she is counting the days from the Passover to the
Feast of Weeks, until the Sabbath after the Feast of Weeks, because the
man she is going to marry on that day is her chosen, her dearest, her
beloved? He will lead her under the wedding canopy. To him she will give
all her heart, and all her love. And to me? Alas! Woe is me! To me she
is no more than a sister. She always was to me a sister, and always will
be.... And I imagine that she is looking at me with pity and with
regret, and that she is saying to me, as she said to me, once on a time,
years ago, in the words of the "Song of Songs:"

"O that thou wert as my brother."

"Why are you not my brother?"

What answer can I make her to these unspoken words? I know what I should
like to say to her. Only let me get the chance to say a few words to
her, no more than a few.

No! I shall not be able to speak a single word with Busie this day--nor
even half a word. Now she is rising from her chair. She is going with
light, soft footfalls to the cupboard. She is getting the candles ready
for my mother, fixing them into the silver candlesticks. How well I know
these silver candlesticks! They played a big part in my golden, boyish
dreams of the bewitched Queen's Daughter whom I was going to rescue from
the palace of crystal. The golden dreams, and the silver candlesticks,
and the Sabbath candles, and my mother's beautiful, white transparent
hands, and Busie's beautiful blue "Song of Songs" eyes, and the last
rays of the sun that is going down in the west--are they not all one and
the same, bound together and interwoven for ever?...

"Ta!" exclaimed my father, looking out of the window, and winking to me
that it was high time to change and go into the synagogue to pray.

And we changed our garments, my father and I, and we went into the
synagogue to say our prayers.