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do I know they—"
    "They are expecting you. I told them you were coming."
    Daniel glared at him. What right had Simon to be so sure he would come? Simon smiled a brief encouragement and strode away. Daniel stood, resentful, overcome with panic, and as he hesitated the door opened and a very old woman stood on the threshold.
    How bent she was, and thin!
    "Daniel?" Could that quavering voice belong to his grandmother? "Is that you, Daniel?"
    "Yes, Grandmother," he stammered. "Peace be with you." As he spoke he heard the second call of the horn across the village.
    "My boy! It is time you came home!" Her eyes, pale and clouded, peered up into his face. Her hands clutched at him.
    At the door he hesitated, and the strong habit of his childhood reaching out to him, scarcely aware of what he did, he touched his finger to the mezuzah, the little niche in the door frame that contained the sacred verses of the Shema. Then he stepped over the threshold.
    The room seemed to be empty. One smoking oil lamp hung from the rafters. On the mat beneath it the supper dishes were set and the Sabbath lamp stood ready. He peered about him with dread.
    "Come Leah," his grandmother said. "You should not be working after the second call. Come and greet your brother."
    Then he saw the girl, seated behind the loom in the corner, the long golden hair flowing over her shoulders. He stood tongue-tied. He had remembered a little girl. She was almost a woman, and he realized that she was beautiful.
    "Leah," his grandmother fussed again. "It is Daniel, come home after all these years."
    He ran his tongue over his lips. "Peace, Leah," he said.
    The girl raised her head from her work, so that he caught a glimpse of the clear blue of her eyes. The fear in them struck like a sickness behind his ribs.
    "Don't mind her," the old woman said. "She will know you before long. Shame, Leah. Get some water for your brother. Where are your manners?"
    The girl did not move. Daniel waited, sick at heart. "Leah," he stammered. "Don't you know me?" He pleaded with her. "Don't you remember how you always brought me water when I came home to visit?"
    She raised her head again. Slowly into the blue eyes he watched recognition come. "You really are Daniel?" Her voice was faint and tremulous. "You have been away so long."
    "Please bring me the water, Leah."
    Obediently she moved from the loom to the earthen jar by the door and poured out water into a hollow bowl, every motion gentle and graceful. But the bowl she held out to him was shaking so that the water spilled over. He took it awkwardly and bent to wash his feet. What had he expected or hoped? It was just as it had been when he left five years ago. No, it was worse. His sister Leah was fifteen years old, and fear still looked out of her eyes.
    The last call of the horn came clearly, announcing the start of the Sabbath. His grandmother lighted a wick from the lamp and held it to the Sabbath lamp. "Speak the blessing, Daniel," she said. "It is fitting the man should say it."
    He hesitated, then the words came falteringly to his lips. "Praised be Thou, O Lord our God, King of the Universe, Who hast sanctified us by Thy commandments and commanded us to kindle the Sabbath light."
    They sat on the hard dirt floor around the frayed mat, and once again his grandmother looked to him. Long ago, for the first months in the cave, he had repeated a blessing silently over his food. This he remembered well. "Blessed art Thou, O Lord our God, Who bringeth forth bread from the earth—"
    There was certainly little to bless God for, a watery stew made of lentils, some coarse barley bread. In a moment he noticed that the others were not eating at all, only watching him, their eyes following each morsel from the bowl to his mouth.
    "Do you not eat with me?" he asked.
    "We have eaten already," said his grandmother.
    But Leah was more honest. "Grandmother said we must save it for you," she explained, in her sweet childish voice. "She said you