Saying this, she crept closer to his side, and knelt there, and by her old trick of love she took his hand in both of hers, and pressed it against her cheek, and then, lifting her sweet face with its motionless eyes she began to tell him in her broken words and pretty lisp what she thought of night.  In the night the world, and everything in it, was cold and quiet.  That was death.  The angels of God came to the world in the day.  But God Himself came in the night, because He loved silence, and because all the world was dead.  Then He kissed things, and in the morning all that God had kissed came to life again.  If you were to get up early you would feel God’s kiss on the flowers and on the grass.  And that was why the birds were singing then.  God had kissed them in the night, and they were glad.

One day Israel took Naomi to the mearrah of the Jews, the little cemetery outside the town walls where he had buried Ruth.  And there he told her of her mother once more; that she was in the grave, but also with God; that she was dead, but still alive; that Naomi must not expect to find her in that place, but, nevertheless, that she would see her yet again.

“Do you remember her, Naomi?” he said.  “Do you remember her in the old days, the old dark and silent days?  Not Fatimah, and not Habeebah, but some one who was nearer to you than either, and loved you better than both; some one who had soft hands, and smooth cheeks, and long, silken, wavy hair—­do you remember, little one?”

“Y-es, I think—­I think I remember,” said Naomi.

“That was your mother, my darling.”

“My mother?”

“Ah, you don’t know what a mother is, sweetheart.  How should you?  And how shall I tell you?  Listen.  She is the one who loves you first and last and always.  When you are a babe she suckles you and nourishes you and fondles you, and watches for the first light of your smile, and listens for the first accent of your tongue.  When you are a young child she plays with you, and sings to you, and tells you little stories, and teaches you to speak.  Your smile is more bright to her than sunshine, and your childish lisp more sweet than music.  If you are sick she is beside you constantly, and when you are well she is behind you still.  Though you sin and fall and all men spurn you, yet she clings to you; and if you do well and God prospers you, there is no joy like her joy.  Her love never changes, for it is a fount which the cold winds of the world cannot freeze. . . .  And if you are a little helpless girl—­blind and deaf and dumb maybe—­then she loves you best of all.  She cannot tell you stories, and she cannot sing to you, because you cannot hear; she cannot smile into your eyes, because you cannot see; she cannot talk to you, because you cannot speak; but she can watch your quiet face, and feel the touch of your little fingers and hear the sound of your merry laughter.”

“My mother! my mother!” whispered Naomi to herself, as if in awe.