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Updated: June 20, 2025
A year and a half passed away since Michael came home to the ownerless island. He had not left it for a single day. Great events had occurred during this interval. Dodi had learned to write. What joy when the little dunce made his first attempt with chalk on a board: the letters are dictated to him "write l and ó, and then pronounce them both together."
On this bed slept Therese; it was as he had thought Noémi was already at rest under the rose-bush. It is well. He knocked at the window. "It is I, Therese." At this the woman came out on the veranda. "Are you sleeping alone, Therese?" said Timar. "Yes." "Has Noémi gone up to Dodi?" "Not so. Dodi has come down to Noémi." Timar looked inquiringly in her face.
What would become of Timéa, and above all, of Noémi? Who would care for the forsaken one, a widow without being a wife? Who would bring up Dodi, and what fate awaited him when he should be grown up, and Michael underground? Two women's lives would be wrecked by his death!
When at last Michael got it into his arms he said, "I shall stay here, Dodi, till I have finished your house." The child said something which Noémi interpreted to mean, "That is just what I wish." These were the happiest days of Timar's dual life. Nothing troubled the serenity of his happiness, except the thought of that other life to which he must return.
But I have told her something else besides the place you go to when you are not at home the secret joys of the ownerless island the intrigue with another woman the deceit you practice on her. I tell her about Noémi and little Dodi. Now shall I drive another thorn under your nails?" Timar's breast heaved with heavy panting sobs. "Well, as you say nothing, we will proceed," said the cruel torturer.
His recovery hung on perfect tranquillity; any violent excitement would kill him. Noémi stayed all night by Timar's sick-bed: she never even went out once to see little Dodi; he slept in the outer room with Frau Therese. On the morning of the fourteenth day, while Michael lay sound asleep, Therese whispered in Noémi's car, "Little Dodi is very ill." The child now! Poor Noémi!
"Darling Noémi, look at me." She raised her eyes to his. "Where is little Dodi?" The poor creature could no longer hide her grief. She raised her martyr face to heaven, stretched up both hands, and faltered, "There! .
Some of the finest melodies to which the Synagogue hymns, or Piyyutim, are set, are the melodies to Achoth Ketannah, based on Canticles viii. 8, and Berach Dodi, a frequent phrase of the Hebrew book. The latter melody is similar to the finer melodies of the Levant; the former strikingly recalls the contemporary melodies of the Greek Archipelago.
We have made him a little house out in the garden." Poor thing, she told the truth. "You are very good, Therese. Go to Dodi and send Noémi to me. I will not ask her again to bring him to me. Poor Noémi! But as soon as I can get up and go out, you will let me go to him, won't you?" "Yes, Michael." By this pious fraud it was possible to satisfy him till he was out of bed and on the road to recovery.
I have heaped gold and diamonds upon her, but she shall not have a word from you; that is one of my own treasures. I brought Noémi nothing of Timéa's, and I will not give Timéa anything of Noémi's. You shall not write her a word." "Well, then," said Noémi, smiling, "I know another who can write to Timéa. Dodi shall write the letter."
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