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 were no more than their due. "This is my son...." "That is your son? Here is a 'Peace be unto you!'" In my father's words, "This is my son," there were many shades of feeling, many meanings--joy, and happiness, and reproach. One might interpret the words as one liked. One might argue that he meant to say: "What do you think? This is really my _son_." Or one might argue that he meant to say: "Just imagine it--_this_ is my son!" I could feel for my father. He was deeply hurt. I had opposed his wishes. I had not gone his road, but had taken a road of my own. And I had caused him to grow old before his time. No; he had not forgiven me yet. He did not tell me this. But his manner saved him the trouble of explaining himself. I felt that he had not forgiven me yet. His eyes told me everything. They looked at me reproachfully from over his silver-rimmed spectacles, right into my heart. His soft sigh told me that he had not forgiven me yet--the sigh which tore itself, from time to time, out of his weak old breast....