in a world of silence in the midst of a land of sweet sounds. She was a
living and buried soul.

And of that soul itself what did Israel know? He knew that it had
memory, for Naomi had remembered her mother; and he knew that it had
love, for she had pined for Ruth, and clung to her. But what were love
and memory without sight and speech? They were no more than a magnet
locked in a casket--idle and useless to any purposes of man or the
world.

Thinking of this, Israel realised for the first time how awful was the
affliction of his motherless girl. To be blind was to be afflicted once,
but to be both blind and deaf was not only to be afflicted twice, but
twice ten thousand times, and to be blind and deaf and dumb was not
merely to be afflicted thrice, but beyond all reckonings of human
speech.

For though Naomi had been blind, yet, if she could have had hearing, her
father might have spoken with her, and if she had sorrows he must have
soothed them, and if she had joys he must have shared them, and in this
beautiful world of God, so full of things to look upon and to love, he
must have been eyes of her eyes that could not see. On the other hand,
though Naomi had been deaf, yet if she could have had sight her father
might have held intercourse with her by the light of her eyes, and if
she felt pain he must have seen it, and if she had found pleasure he
must have known it, and what man is, and what woman is, and what the
world and what the sea and what the sky, would have been as an open book
for her to read. But, being blind and deaf together, and, by fault of
being deaf, being dumb as well, what word was to describe the desolation
of her state, the blank void of her isolation--cut off, apart, aloof,