t, 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?"

"Well, in a way. He'd just come from one of our fraternity meetings. He
wanted to tell me that, when you are back, they will probably offer you
an election."

"What? To your fraternity?"

"Yes." He paused and watched me amusedly. "It doesn't seem to thrill
you."

I smiled back at him. "No, not the way I would have in freshman year."

"Yes--that's how I thought you'd feel. You needn't be afraid of hurting
my feelings--or Trevelyan's, either--by declining. They're a little too
late, aren't they?"

"Oh, it isn't that. I don't want them to think me ungrateful, you
see--but I've passed that stage. There are so many other things for me
to care about, now." I was thinking of Frank Cohen's remark about the
number of Jewish underclassmen who wanted counsel, leadership--and, now
more than ever, I was sure of myself.

"I understand," said Mr. Richards, shaking my hand at parting. "Good
luck to you--or better still, good faith to you! A man's work and a
man's God--you've found them at last."

* * * * *

That night, in my room at college, I found on the mantle shelf the big,
brass, seven-branched candlestick which I had seen in the room of the
class president. It was Fred's gift to me.

And, thinking of those years, I lit the seven candles, one by one, and
watched them struggle feebly, desperately, until all of them were calm
and bright, their flicker ended--until the Menorah, with its uplifted
arms, and all the little space about it, shone with a radiance that was
firm and beautiful.