Like a sister and a brother we played together, and we hid in a corner--we two; and I used to tell her the fairy tales I learnt at school--the tales which were told me by my comrade Sheika, who knew everything, even "_Kaballa_." I told her that by means of "_Kaballa_," I could do wonderful tricks--draw wine from a stone, and gold from a wall. By means of "_Kaballa_," I told her, I could manage that we two should rise up into the clouds, and even higher than the clouds. Oh, how she loved to hear me tell my stories! There was only one story which Busie did not like me to tell--the story of the Queen's Daughter, the princess who had been bewitched, carried off from under the wedding canopy, and put into a palace of crystal for seven years. And I said that I was flying off to set her free.... Busie loved to hear every tale excepting that one about the bewitched Queen's Daughter whom I was flying off to set free. "You need not fly so far. Take my advice, you need not." This is what Busie said to me, fixing on my face her beautiful blue "Song of Songs" eyes. That is who and what Busie is. And now my father writes me that I must congratulate Busie. She is betrothed, and will be married on the Sabbath after the Feast of Weeks. She is some one's bride--some one else's, not mine! I sat down and wrote a letter to my father, in answer to his. "TO MY HONOURED AND DEAR FATHER, "I have received your letter with the--'_roubles_.' In a few days, as soon as I am ready, I will go home, in time for the first days of the Passover Festival--or perhaps for the latter days. But I will surely come home. I send my heartiest greetings to my mother. And to Busie I send my congratulations. I wish her joy and happiness. "From me, "YOUR SON." It was a lie. I had nothing to get ready; nor was there any need for me to wait a few days. The same day on which I received my father's letter and answered it, I got on the train and flew home. I arrived home exactly on the day before the Festival, on a warm, bright Passover eve. I found the village exactly as I had left it, once on a time, years ago. It was not changed by a single hair. Not a detail of it was different. It was the same village. The people were the same. The Passover eve was the same, with all its noise and hurry and flurry and bustle. And out of doors it was also the same Passover eve as when I had been at home, years ago.