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.