meantime, Busie and I got the chance of saying a few words to one
another. I got up from my place and went over close beside her. And we
stood opposite one another for the first time, closely, on this night. I
pointed out to her how rarely beautiful the night was.

"On such a night," I said to her, "it is good to go walking."

She understood me, and answered me, with a half-smile by asking:

"On such a night?" ...

And I imagined that she was laughing at me. That was how she used to
laugh at me, once on a time, years ago.... I was annoyed. I said to her:

"Busie, we have something to say to one another--we have much to talk
about."

"Much to talk about?" she replied, echoing my words.

And again I imagined that she was laughing at me.... I put in quickly:

"Perhaps I am mistaken? Maybe I have nothing at all to say to you now?"

These words were uttered with so much bitterness that Busie ceased from
smiling, and her face grew serious.

"Tomorrow," she said to me, "tomorrow we will talk." ...

And my eyes grew bright. Everything about me was bright and good and
joyful. Tomorrow! Tomorrow we will talk! Tomorrow! Tomorrow!...

I went over nearer to her. I smelt the fragrance of her hair, the
fragrance of her clothes--the same familiar fragrance of her. And there
came up to my mind the words of the "Song of Songs":

"Thy lips, O my spouse, drop as the honeycomb: honey and milk are under
thy tongue; and the smell of thy garments is like the smell of
Lebanon." ...

And all our speech this night was the same--without words. We spoke
together with our eyes--with our eyes.

* * *

"Busie, good-night," I said to her softly.

It was hard for me to go away from her. The one God in Heaven knew the
truth--how hard it was.

"Good-night," Busie made answer.

She did not stir from the spot. She looked at me, deeply perplexed, out
of her beautiful blue "Song of Songs" eyes.

I said "good-night" to her again. And she again said "good-night" to me.
My mother came in and led me off to bed. When we were in my room, my
mother smoothed out for me, with her beautiful, snow-white hands, the
white cover of my bed. And her lips murmured:

"Sleep well, my child, sleep well."

Into these few words she poured a whole ocean of tender love--the love
which had been pent up in her breast the long time I had been away from
her. I was ready to fall down before her, and kiss her beautiful white
hands.

"Good-night," I murmured so