Naomi was already in bed, and Fatimah brought her away in her
nightdress. She seemed to know where she was to be taken, for she
laughed as Fatimah held her by the hand, and danced as she was led to
her mother's chamber. But when she was come to the door of it, suddenly
her laughter ceased, and her little face sobered, as if something in the
close abode of pain had troubled the senses that were left to her.

It is, perhaps, the most touching experience of the deaf and blind that
no greeting can ever welcome them. When Naomi stood like a little white
vision at the threshold of the room, Israel took her hand in silence,
and drew her up to the pillow of the bed where her mother rested, and in
silence Ruth brought the child to her bosom.

For a moment Naomi seemed to be perplexed. She touched her mother's
fingers, and they were changed, for they had grown thin and long. Then
she felt her face, and that was changed also, for it was become withered
and cold. And, missing the grasp of one and the smile of the other, she
first turned her little head aside as one that listens closely, and then
gently withdrew herself from the arms that held her.

Ruth had watched her with eyes that overflowed, and now she burst into
sobs outright.

"The child does not know me!" she cried. "Did I not tell you it would
break my heart?"

"Try her again," said Israel; "try her again."

Ruth devoured her tears, and called on Fatimah to bring the child back
to her side. Then, loosening the necklace that was about her own neck,