Can
you explain it, Miss Levice?"
He waited deferentially for a reply.
"I was trying to think of a proper answer," she responded with earnest
simplicity; "and I think that their great musical and histrionic powers are
the results not so much of art as of passion inherited from times and
circumstances stern and sad since the race began. Painting and sculpture
require other things."
"Which the Jew cannot obtain?"
A soft glow overspread her face and mounted to her brow.
"Dr. Kemp," she answered, "we have begun. I should like to quote to you
the beautiful illustration with which one of our rabbis was inspired to
answer a clergyman asking the same question; but I should only spoil that
which in his mouth seemed eloquent."
"You would not, Miss Levice. Tell the story, please."
They were on level ground, and the doctor could disengage his attention
from the horses. He did not fail to note the emotion that lit up her
expressive face, and made her sweet voice tremble.
"It is the story of the Rose of Sharon. This is it briefly: A pilgrim was
about to start on a voyage to the Holy Land. In bidding a friend good-by,
he said: 'In that far land to which I am journeying, is there not some
relic, some sacred souvenir of the time beautiful, that I can bring to
you?' The friend mused awhile.
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