When I looked at the Busie of today, I was reminded of the Busie of the past. I recalled to mind Busie in her new little holiday frock which my mother had made for her, at that time, for the Passover. I remembered the new little shoes which my father had bought for her, at that time, for the Passover. And when I remembered the Busie of the past, there came back to me, without an effort on my part, all over again, phrase by phrase, and chapter by chapter, the long-forgotten "Song of Songs."
"Thou hast doves' eyes within thy locks: thy hair is as a flock of goats, that appear from mount Gilead.
"Thy teeth are like a flock of sheep that are even shorn, which come up from the washing: whereof every one bear twins, and none is barren among them.
"Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy speech is comely: thy temples are like a piece of pomegranate within thy locks."
I look at Busie, and once again everything is as in the "Song of Songs," just as it was in the past, once on a time, years before.
. . . . .
"Busie, am I to congratulate you?"
She does not hear me. But why does she lower her eyes? And why have her cheeks turned scarlet? No, I must bid her joy—I must!
"I congratulate you, Busie."
"May you live in happiness," she replies.