There was also a kind of bitter pathos in the regret that she was only an angel now and not a woman; therefore she could not be with him to share his human joy.
As he walked through the Mellah, Israel thought of her again: how she had sung by the cradle to her babe that could not hear.

Sung?
Yes, he could almost fancy that he heard her singing yet.

That voice so soft, so clear even in its whispers--there had been nothing like it in all the world.

And her songs! Israel could also fancy that he heard her favourite one.

It was a song of love, a pure but passionate melody wherein his own delicious happiness in the earlier days, before the death of the old Grand Rabbi, had seemed to speak and sing.
Israel began to laugh at himself as he walked.