“Come, come, little one; come, come, speak to us, only speak,” Israel would say.

His appeals were useless.  Naomi would smile and hang her sunny head, and lift her father’s hairy hand to her cheek, and say nothing.

But just about a week later a beautiful thing occurred.  Israel was returning to the Mellah after one of his secret excursions in the poor quarter of the Bab Ramooz, where he had spent the remainder of the money which old Reuben had paid him for the casket of his wife’s jewels.  The night was warm, the moon shone with steady lustre, and the stars were almost obliterated as separate lights by a luminous silvery haze.  It was late, very late, and far and near the town was still.

With his innocent disguise, his Moorish jellab, hung over his arm, Israel had passed the Mellah gate, being the only Jew who was allowed to cross it after sunset.  He was feeling happy as he walked home through the sleeping streets, with his black shadow going in front.  The magic of the summer night possessed him, and his soul was full of joy.

All his misgivings had fallen away.  The coming to Naomi of the gift of speech had seemed to banish from his mind the dark spirit of the past.  He had no heart for reprisals upon the enemies who had sought to kill him.  Without that blind effort on their part, perhaps his great blessing had not come to pass.  Man’s extremity had indeed been God’s opportunity and Ruth’s vision was all but realised.

Ah, Ruth!  Ruth!  It had escaped Israel’s notice until then that he had been thinking of his dead wife the whole night through.  When he put it to himself so, he saw the reason of it at once.  It was because there was a sort of secret charm in the certainty that where she was she must surely know that her dream was come true.  There was also a kind of bitter pathos in the regret that she was only an angel now and not a woman; therefore she could not be with him to share his human joy.

As he walked through the Mellah, Israel thought of her again:  how she had sung by the cradle to her babe that could not hear.  Sung?  Yes, he could almost fancy that he heard her singing yet.  That voice so soft, so clear even in its whispers—­there had been nothing like it in all the world.  And her songs!  Israel could also fancy that he heard her favourite one.  It was a song of love, a pure but passionate melody wherein his own delicious happiness in the earlier days, before the death of the old Grand Rabbi, had seemed to speak and sing.

Israel began to laugh at himself as he walked.  To think that the warmth and softness of the night, the sweet caressing night, the light and beauty of the moon and the stillness and slumber of the town, could betray an old fellow into forgotten dreams like these!

He had taken out of his pocket the big key of the clamped door to his house, and was crossing the shadowed lane in front of it, when suddenly he thought he heard music coating in the air above him.  He stopped and listened.  Then he had no longer any doubt.  It was music, it was singing; he knew the song, and he knew the voice.  The song was the song he had been thinking of, and the voice was the voice of Ruth.