He was reading aloud in Hebrew, and his deep voice filled the room with its musical intonations: "Praise Him, ye heavens of heavens, and ye waters that be above the heavens." He raised his head and glanced out toward the western sky. A star or two twinkled through the fading afterglow. Pushing the book aside, he walked to the open window and looked up. There was a noise of children playing on the pavement below, and the rumbling of an electric car in the next street. A whiff from a passing cigar floated up to him, and the shrill whistle of a newsboy with the evening paper. But Abraham at the door of his tent, Moses in the Midian desert, Elijah by the brook Cherith, were no more apart from the world than this old rabbi at this moment. He saw only the star. He heard only the inward voice of adoration, as he stood in silent communion with the God of his fathers. His strong, rugged features and white beard suggested the line of patriarchs so forcibly, that had a robe and sandals been substituted for the broadcloth suit he wore, the likeness would have been complete. He stood there a long time, with his lips moving silently; then suddenly, as if his unspoken homage demanded voice, he caught up his violin. Forty years of companionship had made it a part of himself. The depth of his being that could find no expression in words, poured itself out in the passionately reverent tones of his violin. In such exalted moods as this it was no earthly instrument of music. It became to him a veritable Jacob's ladder, on which he heard the voices of the angels ascending and descending, and on whose trembling rounds he climbed to touch the Infinite. There was a quick step on the stairs, and a heavy tread along the upper hall. Then the portiere was pushed aside and a voice of the world brought the rhapsody to a close. "Where are you, Uncle Ezra? It is too dark to see, but your fiddle says that you are at home." "Ah, David, my boy, come in and strike a light. I wondered why you were so late." "I was out on my wheel," answered the young man. "Cycling is warm work this time of year." He lighted the gas and threw himself lazily down among the pile of cushions on the couch. "I had a letter from Marta to-day." "And what does the little sister have to say?" answered the rabbi, noticing a frown deepening on David's forehead. "I suppose her vacation has commenced, and she will soon be on her way home again." "No," answered David, with a still deeper frown. "She has changed all her plans, and wants me to change mine, just to suit the Herrick family. She has gone to Chattanooga with them, and they are up on Lookout Mountain. She wants me to meet her there and spend part of the summer with her. She grows more infatuated with Frances Herrick every day. You know they have been inseparable friends since they first started to kindergarten."