Nemuel had lifted his head and was listening, his eyes fastened wonderingly on the stranger's face.
"And it was not a blessing to be wrapped up in a napkin. It was not one to bring you good fortune, as if it had been a sorcerer's charm. It was a blessing for you to take and to make—to use it—to give it to others. Through you He blessed all children…. And yet—" the stranger's voice deepened—"yet there was something special too."
"What was it?" Nemuel breathed.
The stranger bent on him a gaze full of yearning. "Have you not remembered His face?" he asked. "His wonderful look—just for you?" There was a pleading note of reproach in his voice as he leaned toward Nemuel, but his face was all love and tenderness.
Nemuel began to shake his head slowly, still fixing the stranger with his gaze.
"No," he confessed. "I haven't been able to remember—not for years. At first I did. Afterward I knew His face was wonderful, but I could not see it. But now—now I begin to remember——"
The young stranger waited for the halting words, his face lighting softly with a holy hope and joy.
"Why, your face—" Nemuel still hesitated, groping, and then suddenly his voice rang out in triumph, and memory dawned clearly in his eyes—"why, your face—is—like—His! Oh, I do remember!—and—I begin to understand."
Kitchener's Mob