edge. A
long string of them, too, as if many persons were within upon some
mysterious business.

Then, softly, as if from far distant recesses, there came from within
the soft, resonant voice of an organ--playing.

Was it a church?

Then I remembered that it was Friday night--and I knew that this was a
synagogue--a temple of the Jewish Faith.

At first realization, I moved a little away from it, down the street. A
synagogue--and all that it brought to my mind was the memory of my
parents. In former years they had been wont to take me with them when
they went on Friday nights. And those had been dull, wearisome nights
for me--but I had spent them at my parent's side. So that now, in the
shadow of God's house, my loneliness for them came back to me in wild
deluge, breaking the dam of reserve and doubts and petty limitations.

The music of the organ swelled louder, richer, blending all the majesty
of its bass notes with the triumph and fancy of its treble. Louder,
richer, louder--and I, who stood outside in the choking fog, felt my
heart give way to its pain and my eyes to the solace of their tears.

Until the service was ended, and the organ had ceased to play I stayed
there. Once or twice I heard the voice of the cantor at his solemn
chantings--and this too brought me a distinct memory of the cantor in
our Brooklyn synagogue, and of how I had listened to him with my hands
locked in my mother's.

Outside it was all so dark, so clammy with mist--and in there they--my
own sort of people--were worshipping God--my God. And when, soon
thereafter, the doors swung open in the black of the arches and bathed
the steps below with a great, glad, golden light, I ran forward, almost
involuntarily, to gaze within.

I caught a glimpse of rich things, bright and gleaming--of carpets
glowing, walls resplendent--of golden tracery and colors. And then
people began coming through the doors down the steps, blackening and
obscuring my view of the interior.

I saw some of their faces. They were Jewish people, of course--and I
heard a man among them talking rather loudly and laughingly. He talked
with an accent.

For me the spell was broken. All the old, petty prejudice which
circumstance had nurtured in me sprang up anew. A sense of anti-climax,
of disgust came over me: yes, these--such as these were my people--and I
hated them.

And I turned and ran away, back through the park, and home.

I did not ever tell my aunt where I had