"No. To a thick wood. First I go in and out of the trees, and after that I come to the little stream." "You swim across the water, and count seven times seven." "And there appears before me a little old man with a long beard." "He asks you: 'What is your desire?'" "I say to him: 'Bring me the Queen's daughter.'" Busie takes her hand from mine, and runs down the hill. I run after her. "Busie, why are you running off?" Busie does not answer. She is vexed. She likes the story I told her excepting the part about the Queen's daughter. * * * You have not forgotten who Busie is? I told you once. But if you have forgotten, I will tell you again. I had an older brother, Benny. He was drowned. He left after him a water-mill, a young widow, two horses, and a little child. The mill was neglected; the horses were sold; the widow married again, and went away, somewhere far; and the child was brought to us. This child was Busie. Ha! ha! ha! Everybody thinks that Busie and I are sister and brother. She calls my mother "mother," and my father "father." And we two live together like sister and brother, and love one another, like sister and brother. Like sister and brother? Then why is Busie ashamed before me? It happened once that we two were left alone in the house--we two by ourselves in the whole house. It was evening, towards nightfall. My father had gone to the synagogue to recite the mourners' prayer after my dead brother Benny, and my mother had gone out to buy matches. Busie and I crept into a corner, and I told her stories. Busie likes me to tell her stories--fine stories of "_Cheder_," or from the "Arabian Nights." She crept close to me, and put her hand into mine. "Tell me something, Shemak, tell me." Softly fell the night around us. The shadows crept slowly up the walls, paused on the floor, and stole all around. We could hardly, hardly see one another's face. I felt her hand trembling. I heard her little heart beating. I saw her eyes shining in the dark. Suddenly she drew her hand from mine. "What is it, Busie?" "We must not." "What must we not?" "Hold each other's hands." "Why not? Who told you that?" "I know it myself." "Are we strangers? Are we not sister and brother?" "Oh, if we were sister and brother," cried Busie. And I imagined I heard in her voice the words from the "Song of Songs," "O that thou wert as my brother." It is always so. When I speak of Busie, I always think of the "Song of Songs." * * * Where was I? I was telling you of the eve of the "_Shevuous_." Well, we ran down hill, Busie in front, I after her. She is angry with me because of the Queen's daughter. She likes all my stories excepting the one about the Queen's daughter. But Busie's anger need not worry one. It does not last long, no longer than it takes to tell of it. She is again looking up at me with her great, bright, thoughtful eyes. She tosses back her hair and says to me: