But all this happened once on a time, years ago. Now the Queen's Daughter is grown up. She is big. And the King's Son is grown up. He is big. And we two are seated in such a way, so pitilessly, that we cannot even see one another. Imagine it to yourself! On the right of his majesty sat the King's Son. On the left of her majesty sat the Queen's Daughter!... And we recited the "_Haggadah_," my father and I, at the top of our voices, as once on a time, years ago, page after page, and in the same sing-song as of old. And my mother and Busie repeated the words after us, softly, page after page, until we came to the "Song of Songs." I recited the "Song of Songs" together with my father, as once on a time, years ago, in the same melody as of old, passage after passage. And my mother and Busie repeated the words after us, softly, passage after passage, until the King of the night, tired out, after the long Passover ceremony, and somewhat dulled by the four cups of raisin wine, began to doze off by degrees. He nodded for a few minutes, woke up, and went on singing the "Song of Songs." He began in a loud voice: "Many waters cannot quench love.".... And I caught him up, in the same strain: "Neither can floods drown it." The recital grew softer and softer with us both, as the night wore on, until at last his majesty fell asleep in real earnest. The Queen touched him on the sleeve of his white robe. She woke him with a sweet, affectionate gentleness, and told him he should go to bed. In the 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." ...