did, and in her silence seem to echo him.

Pretty and piteous sights! Who could look on them without 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