out tears? One
thing at least was clear if the soul of this child was in prison,
nevertheless it was alive; and if it was in chains, nevertheless it
could not die, but was immortal and unmaimed and waited only for the
hour when it should be linked to other souls, soul to soul in the chains
of speech. But the years went on, and Naomi grew in beauty and increased
in sweetness, but no angel came down to open the darkened windows of her
eyes, and draw aside the heavy curtains of her ears.

CHAPTER IV

THE DEATH OF RUTH

For all her joy and all her prettiness, Naomi was a burden which only
love could bear. To think of the girl by day, and to dream of her by
night, never to sit by her without pity of her helplessness, and never
to leave her without dread of the mischances that might so easily
befall, to see for her, to hear for her, to speak for her, truly the
tyranny of the burden was terrible.

Ruth sank under it. Through seven years she was eyes of the child's
eyes, and ears of her ears, and tongue of her tongue. After that her
own sight became dim, and her hearing faint. It was almost as if she had
spent them on Naomi in the yearning of dove and pity. Soon afterwards
her bodily strength failed her also, and then she knew that her time had
come, and that she was to lay down her burden for ever. But her burden
had become dear, and she clung to it. She could not look upon the child
and think it, that she, who had spent her strength for her from the
first, must leave her now to other love and tending. So she betook
herself to an upper room, and gave strict orders to Fatimah and Habeebah
that Naomi was to be kept from her altogether, that sight of the child's
helpless happy face might tempt her soul no more.

And there in her death-chamber Israel sat with her constantly, settling
his countenance steadfastly, and coming and going softly. He was more
constant than a slave, and more tender than a woman. His love was great,
but also he was eating out his big heart with remorse. The root of his
trouble was the child. He never talked of her, and neither did Ruth
dwell upon her name. Yet they thought of little else while they sat
together.

And even if they had been minded to talk of the child, what had they to
say of her? They had no memories to recall, no sweet childish sayings,
no simple broken speech, no pretty lisp--they had nothing to bring back
out of any harvest of the past of all the dear delicious wealth that