my childish soul swept about with the
angels I imagined were flying around the carved wings of the Holy Ark.
Here, in the little synagogue, once on a time, with my father and all
the other Jews, I prayed earnestly. And it gave me great pleasure, great
satisfaction.

* * *

And now, here I am again in the same old synagogue, praying with the
same old congregation, just as once on a time, years ago. I hear the
same Cantor singing the same melodies as before. And I am praying along
with the congregation. But my thoughts are far from the prayers. I keep
turning over the pages of my prayer-book idly, one page after the other.
And--I am not to blame for it--I come upon the pages on which are
printed the "Song of Songs." And I read:

"Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou are fair; thou hast dove's
eyes within thy locks."

I should like to pray with the congregation, as they are praying, and as
I used to pray, once on a time. But the words will not rise to my lips.
I turn over the pages of my prayer-book, one after the other, and--I am
not to blame for it--again I turn up the "Song of Songs," at the fifth
chapter.

"I am come into my garden, my sister, my spouse."

And again:

"I have gathered my myrrh with my spice; I have eaten my honeycomb with
my honey; I have drunk my wine with my milk."

But what am I talking about? What am I saying? The garden is not mine. I
shall not gather any myrrh, nor smell any spices. I shall eat no honey,
and drink no wine. The garden is not my garden. Busie is not my
betrothed. Busie is betrothed to some one else--to some one else, and
not to me.... And there rages within me a hellish fire. Not against
Busie. Not against anybody at all. No; only against myself alone.
Surely! How could I have stayed away from Busie for such a long time?
How could I have allowed it--that Busie should be taken away from me,
and given to some one else? Had she not written many letters to me,
often, and given me to understand that she hoped to see me shortly?...
Had I not myself promised to come home, and then put off going, from one
Festival to another, so many times until, at last, Busie gave up writing
to me?

* * *

"Good '_Yom-Tov_'! This is my son!"

That was how my father introduced me to the men of the congregation at
the synagogue, after prayers. They examined me on all sides. They
greeted me with, "Peace be unto you!" and accepted my greeting, in
return, "Unto you be peace!" as if it