And
in trying to stifle it she came near making the blackest
failure that a woman can make. In grubbing for the pot of
gold she almost missed the rainbow.
Rabbi Thalmann raised his arms for the benediction. Fanny
looked straight up at him as though stamping a picture on
her mind. His eyes were resting gently on her--or perhaps
she just fancied that he spoke to her alone as he began the
words of the ancient closing prayer:
"May the blessings of the Lord Our God rest upon you. God
bless thee and keep thee. May He cause His countenance to
shine upon thee and be gracious unto thee. May God lift up
His countenance unto thee . . ."
At the last word she hurried up the aisle, and down the
stairs, into the soft beauty of the May night. She felt she
could stand no good-bys. In her hotel room she busied
herself with the half-packed trunks and bags. So it was she
altogether failed to see the dark young man who hurried
after her eagerly, and who was stopped by a dozen welcoming
hands there in the temple vestibule. He swore a deep inward
"Damn!" as he saw her straight, slim figure disappear down
the steps and around the corner, even while he found himself
saying, politely, "Why, thanks! It's good to BE back.
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