more than warmth and noise. The one was day--day ruled by the fiery
sun in the sky--and the other was night, lit by the pale moon and the
bright stars in heaven. And the face of man and the eyes of woman were
more than features to feel--they were spirit and soul, to watch and to
follow and to love without any hand being near them.

"There is a great world about you, little one," he said, "which you have
never seen, though you can hear it and feel it and speak to it. Yes, it
is true, Naomi, it is true. You have never seen the mountains and the
dangerous gullies on their rocky sides. You have never seen the mighty
deep, and the storms that heave and swell in it. You have never seen man
or woman or child. Is that very strange, little one? Listen: your mother
died nine years ago, and you had never seen her. Your father is holding
your head in his hands at this moment, but you have never seen his face.
And if the dark curtains were to fall from your eyes, and you were to
see him now, you would not know him from another man, or from woman, or
from a tree. You are blind, Naomi, you are blind."

Naomi listened intently. Her cheeks twitched, her fingers rested
nervously on her dress at her bosom, and her eyes grew large and solemn,
and then filled with tears. Israel's throat swelled. To tell her of all
this, though he must needs do it for her safety, was like reproaching
her with her infirmity. But it was only the trouble in her father's
voice that had found its way to the sealed chamber of Naomi's mind.
The awful and crushing truth of her blindness came later to her
consciousness, probed in and thrust home by a frailer and lighter hand.

She had always loved little children, and since the coming of her
hearing she had loved them more than ever. Their lisping tongues, their
pretty broken speech, their simple words, their childish thoughts, all
fitted with her own needs, for she was nothing but a child herself,
though grown to be a lovely maid. And of all children those she loved
best were not the children of the Jews, nor yet the children of the
Moorish townsfolk, but the ragged, barefoot, black and olive-skinned
mites who came into Tetuan with the country Arabs and Berbers on market
mornings. They were simplest, their little tongues were liveliest, and
they were most full of joy and wonder. So she would gather them up in
twos and threes and fours, on Wednesdays and Sundays, from the mouths of
their tents on the Feddan, and ca