"There is one kind of tune that must have words, that is a low order of tune. But there is a higher kind: a tune that sings itself, but without words--a pure melody! But _that_ melody must have a voice--and lips, through which the voice issues! And lips, you see, are material things! "And the voice itself is refined matter, certainly, but matter none the less. Let us say, the voice stands mid-way between the spiritual and the material. "However that may be, the tune that finds expression through a voice and is dependent on lips is not pure, not entirely pure, not yet really spiritual! "The real tune sings itself without a voice--it sings itself inside one, in the heart, in the thoughts! "There you have the meaning of the words of King David: 'All my bones shall say,' etc. It ought to sing in the marrow of the bones, that is where the tune should be--that is the highest praise we can give to God. That is no human tone that has been _thought out_! It is a fragment of the melody to which God created the world, of the soul He breathed into it. Thus sings the Heavenly Family, thus sang the Rebbe, whose memory be blessed!" The teacher was interrupted by a shock-headed lad with a cord round his waist--a porter. He came into the house-of-study, put down on the table, beside the teacher, a dish of porridge with a piece of bread, said gruffly: "Reb Tebil sends the teacher some food," turned his back, and added, as he went out: "I'll come back presently for the dish." Recalled by the rough tone from the divine harmonies, the teacher rose heavily, and went to the basin to wash, dragging his great boots. He continued to speak as he went, but with less assurance, and the pupil followed him with greedy ears and glowing, dreaming eyes. "But I," repeated Reb Yainkil, sadly, "was not even worthy of understanding to what category it belongs, of knowing under what heading it is classified. However," he added with a smile, "the initiatory mortifications and purifications, those I _do_ know, and perhaps I will teach them you to-day." The pupil's eyes seem about to start from their sockets with eagerness; he keeps his mouth open so as to catch every word. But the teacher is silent, he is washing his hands; he repeats the ritual formula, comes back to the table and says "Thou who bringest forth,"[55] with trembling lips. He lifts the dish with shaking fingers, and the warm steam rises into his face; then he puts it down, takes the spoon in his right hand, and warms the left at the dish's edge; after which he masticates the rest of the bread with some salt between his tongue and his toothless gums. Having warmed his face with his hands, he wrinkles his forehead, purses his thin lips, and begins to blow the porridge. The pupil has not taken his eyes off him the whole time, and when the teacher's trembling mouth met the spoonful of porridge, something came over him, and he covered his face with both hands and withdrew within himself.