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
lies stored in the treasure-houses of the hearts of happy parents. That
way everything was a waste. Always, as Israel entered her room, Ruth
would say, "How is the child?" And always Israel would answer, "She is
well." But, if at that moment Naomi's laughter came up to them from the
patio, where she played with Ali, they would cover their faces and be
silent.

It was a melancholy parting. No one came near them--neither Moor
nor Jew, neither Rabbi nor elder. The idle women of the Mellah would
sometimes stand outside in the street and look up at their house,