emak, 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:

"Shemak, oh, Shemak! Just look! What a sky! You do not see what is going
on all around us."

"I see, little fool. Why should I not see? I see a sky. I feel a warm
breeze blowing. I hear the birds piping and twittering as they fly over
our heads. It is our sky, and our breeze. The little birds are ours
too--everything is ours, ours, ours. Give me your hand, Busie."

No, she will not give me her hand. She is ashamed. Why is Busie ashamed
before me? Why does she grow red?

"There," says Busie to me--"over there, on the other side of the
bridge." And I imagine she is repeating the words of the Shulamite in
the "Song of Songs."

"Come, my beloved, let us go forth into the field; let us lodge in the
villages.

"Let us get up early to the vineyards; let us see if the vine flourish,
whether the tender grape appear, and the pomegranates bud forth."

And we are at the little bridge.

* * *

The stream flows; the frogs croak; the boards of the little bridge are
shaking. Busie is afraid.

"Ah, Busie, you are a---- Why are you afraid, little fool? Hold on to
me. Or, let us take hold of one another, you of me, and I of you. See?
That's right--that's right."

No more little bridge.

We still cling to one another, as w