When she awoke in the morning, after a short night of broken sleep and fitful dreams, the voice and the words were with her still, and then she knew for the first time what the meaning was, and what the penalty, of this strange and dread asundering.  She was alone, and, being alone, she was helpless; she was no better than a child, without kindred to look to her and without power to look to herself, with food and drink beside her, but no skill to make and take them.

Thus her awakening sense was like that of a lamb whose mother has been swallowed up in the night by the sand-drifts of the simoom.  It was not so much love as loss.  What to do, where to look, which way to turn first, she knew no longer, and could not think, for lack of the hand that had been wont to guide her.

The neighbouring Moors heard of what had happened to Naomi, and some of the women among them came to see her.  They were poor farming people, oppressed by cruel taxmasters; and the first things they saw were the cattle and sheep, and the next thing was the simple girl with the child-face, who knew nothing yet of the ways wherein a lonely woman must fend for herself.

“You cannot live here alone, my daughter,” they said; “you would perish.  Then think of the danger—­a child like you, with a face like a flower!  No, no, you must come to us.  We will look to you like one of our own, and protect you from evil men.  And as for the creatures—­”

“But he said I was never to leave this place,” said Naomi. “‘Stay here,’ he said; ‘whatever they say, stay here.  I will come back.’”

The women protested that she would starve, be stolen, ruined, and murdered.  It was in vain.  Naomi’s answer was always the same:  “He told me to stay here, and surely I must do so.”

Then one after another the poor folks went away in anger.  “Tut!” they thought, “what should we want with the Jew child?  Allah!  Was there ever such a simpleton?  The good creatures going to waste, too!  And as for her father, he’ll never come back—­never.  Trust the Basha for that!”

But when the humanity of the true souls had conquered their selfishness, they came again one by one and vied with each other in many simple offices—­milking and churning, and baking and delving—­in pity of the sweet girl with the great eyes who had been left to live alone.  And Naomi, seeing her helplessness at last, put out all her powers to remedy it, so that in a little while she was able to do for herself nearly everything that her neighbours at first did for her.  Then they would say among themselves, “Allah! she’s not such a baby after all; and if she wasn’t quite so beautiful, poor child, or if the world wasn’t so wicked—­but then, God is great!  God is great!”

Not at first had Naomi understood them when they told her that her father had been cast into prison, and every night when she left her lamp alight by the little skin-covered window that was half-hidden under the dropping eaves, and every morning when she opened her door to the radiance of the sun she had whispered to herself and said, “He will come back, Naomi; only wait, only wait; maybe it will be tonight, maybe it will be to-day; you will see, you will see.”