I went over nearer to her. I smelt the fragrance of her hair, the fragrance of her clothes—the same familiar fragrance of her. And there came up to my mind the words of the "Song of Songs":
"Thy lips, O my spouse, drop as the honeycomb: honey and milk are under thy tongue; and the smell of thy garments is like the smell of Lebanon." ...
And all our speech this night was the same—without words. We spoke together with our eyes—with our eyes.
. . . . .
"Busie, good-night," I said to her softly.
It was hard for me to go away from her. The one God in Heaven knew the truth—how hard it was.
"Good-night," Busie made answer.
She did not stir from the spot. She looked at me, deeply perplexed, out of her beautiful blue "Song of Songs" eyes.
I said "good-night" to her again. And she again said "good-night" to me. My mother came in and led me off to bed. When we were in my room, my mother smoothed out for me, with her beautiful, snow-white hands, the white cover of my bed. And her lips murmured:
"Sleep well, my child, sleep well."