And after so much light, there came the darkness. XX THE CANDLES ARE LIGHTED When I rose from a hospital bed of fever and darkness, ten days later, it was with a feeling of rebirth--as if, in the dripping delirium of threatened blindness, the last doubts had sloughed away. And when the bandage was taken from my eyes, and I had, for the first time in so long a while, a short and tempered bit of sunshine that came through the shaded windows and across the clean, white floors, it was as if I saw things, now, as I had never seen them--face to face. I must not return immediately to college, the doctors said. There must be another fortnight of convalescence, with absolute rest for my eyes. They gave me my choice as to where I wanted to go--and I chose the settlement. I should be among friends, down there; I should have the sunny roof-garden to loiter in--and Jewish faces everywhere about me. It was good old Trevelyan, squinting and stuttering and strangely moved, who called for me in his car and took me away from the hospital. He had wanted me to go to his Adirondack lodge, instead, and resigned me into Mr. Richards' care at the settlement as if he were consigning me reluctantly to one of the Inferno's inner limbos. It was then the second day of the Jewish New Year. The whole teeming neighborhood was in holiday garb and mood. From the roof that night Mr. Richards and I stood watching the streets and their carnival crowds, swarming indistinctly under the lamps and about the corners. "The little people," quoted Mr. Richards, "God and the little people...." "They are not little when they have God," I answered. He nodded. "I was wrong in what I said in that argument of ours. Do you remember? I said they didn't need their religion--that it was working more harm than good among the younger generation. I've learned, now.... There isn't a person on earth that doesn't need it--all that he can get of it--and these little people of the East Side most of all." From below there rose to us the clang and clatter of traffic, the indescribable rustle of the crowd, the shriek of a demon fire engine, many streets away. But, above it all, we heard singing, on the floor below us, of a solemn chant in rehearsal. It was the settlement Choral Society, singing the plaintive "Kol Nidre"--and when the parts swelled into unison, all other sounds seemed suddenly engulfed in the rich, melancholy texture of the harmony. Mr. Richards smiled. "There it is, you see: the grim, sad faith of the Jewish people. It is all they have had in all their wanderings--but it is everything." * * * * * The cut across my forehead healed quickly. Resting from all tasks, my eyes regained their strength without relapse.