She took it with the barest flicker of lashes. "It's--it's Hebrew," she protested. "I don't know how to read it." "There is always an English translation on the opposite page," I showed her. "You will be able to read that. Perhaps it will help you." "Perhaps," she said after me, her thin voice quavering. "Read it all. You will come at any rate to a better understanding of your fellow Jews." Her head went down, as if in shame of some unpleasant reminiscence. "Perhaps--I will try, anyhow--and perhaps--" "Aunt Selina," I told her hastily, "I am coming home to live with you at the end of this college year. We shall begin all over again." Then her tears began afresh. "I did not dare ask it--but oh, if you could only know how I have wanted it--and for how long! I would have prayed for it--yes, really, prayed for it--if I had only had someone to pray to!" And then, as if suddenly remembering, she hugged the shabby leather book to her breast, and smiled. But, before she left, I opened it up to show her why I prized this particular copy. For, on the yellowed flyleaf in old ink, was the name, "Isidore Levi." And below it, newly written, these words: "_To a Jew who could not stand aside._" He had sent it to me immediately after he had learned of that last incident at college. And he did not need to explain where I had seen this prayer book last. * * * * * Yom Kippur was my last day at the settlement before returning to college. I went with Frank Cohen and his father to the service of their orthodox congregation. The little synagogue, just off the Bowery, had had to be abandoned, for once, in favor of a huge bare hall that usually served political meetings. But, large as it was, it was packed tightly; and from the gallery, where I stole once to look on, it seemed a vast black sea--wave upon wave of derbies and shiny top hats, with the flicker of white prayer shawls for froth. The prayers and the chantings came up to me almost like mystic exhalations. The great, drab, smeared walls had the splendor of the afternoon sun upon them; the cheap chairs, the improvised altar, the temporary gilt ark behind it--the long gray beards of the patriarchs, the wan faces of the fasting children--everything, children--everything, every one had been gradually drenched in the glory that poured through the windows. It was the setting sun upon Israel--and Israel prayed and sang in the gold of it. * * * * * I went back to college the next day. Mr. Richards and I had breakfast together, so that we might say slowly and easily the last things that were to be said. "I'm glad you're going to finish it out," he began. "You've proved what I once told you; that college isn't all child's play. Some things about it are, of course." He paused a moment, a little embarrassed. "Trevelyan phoned me last night, after you'd gone to bed." "Yes? About me?"