"I read about it," she sobbed. "It was in the papers—and they said the nicest things of you.... But I didn't come sooner because—because I didn't know whether you wanted—you wanted—"
"Yes, Aunt Selina, I am very glad to see you."
She drew a deep sigh. "It has been so long—and I am growing old. I'm just a lonely old woman, boy. And there's no comfort in old age."
I looked at her. She had changed much, I thought. "But you had so many friends," I remonstrated. "All those intellectual society folk!"
"I don't know—they don't seem to interest me any more. I'm growing old. That's all—old and lonely. And they are such fools, every one of them—almost as foolish as I am—and hypocrites, all."
Her hand went tighter about mine, and her rheumy eyes sought mine and searched them. "You seem so happy, boy—so changed. What's the secret of it—can't you tell me?"
I shook my head. It would be of no use, I thought.
"I want it," she begged. "The comfort of it—I did not know I should need it when I was old—and when all else fell away."
So I reached for a book which was on a table nearby, and gave it to her. It was an old Union Prayer Book.
She took it with the barest flicker of lashes. "It's—it's Hebrew," she protested. "I don't know how to read it."