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, 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."