Adah, wife of Naaman, was slightly indisposed. Restlessly she tossed on her silken pillow, wooing in vain the sleep which came fitfully and with disturbing dreams. Her attendant had departed on some errand when through the open door there stole a small shadow. Softly it moved about the room for a few moments, touching this and changing that, then it came and stood over the fair form of the mistress of this magnificent home. It stooped, straightened up as if considering, then bent hastily and kissed gently each eyelid. The eyes flew open in bewilderment and at the same moment a delighted little voice exclaimed:
“I knew it would. It never faileth. I have been looking at thee for a long time through the open door and thou wert so restless I thought it better to wake thee up entirely while I give thee a fresh, cool pillow,” suiting the action to the word, “then will I kiss each eyelid again and thou wilt go straight to sleep. Dost thou notice how I have propped these other pillows to shut out the light, and drawn the curtains so they will sway with the breeze and make thee think thou art breathing the sweet air of the courtyard? There, I have smoothed thy robes and thou wilt be much more comfortable. Now, a kiss here—and one on this eye—nay, open them not; thou must not get too wide awake, for I have not time to sing thee to sleep to-day. There—sh—sh!”
The object of these unexpected attentions drew a satisfied sigh. It was pleasant to be put so entirely at ease without having to think about it at all. The others fussed so and it grew monotonous to be giving directions continually. She had never been taken possession of in just this way before. Everybody else—even Milcah—was so irritatingly anxious to be dignified and proper. There was nothing disrespectful in these quiet tones. It merely showed sense. A moment later there floated through her drowsy consciousness the startling intelligence that this must be the little maid of Israel whom she had so dreaded until “trained.” Taking care not to open the eyes so surprisingly closed, the lady murmured a command to stay right there lest she should want something farther.
“I should like to,” Miriam answered serenely, “but thou hast everything thou wilt need for quite awhile because thou wilt be asleep. I have to take my timbrel now and sing to Milcah’s mother. She is much, much older than thou and needeth me much, much more, but I will come again to see thee when I can spare the time,” with which cheerful assurance Miriam betook herself off with the gladness of being at last wanted.
Her newest acquaintance, so unceremoniously disobeyed for the sake of duty, lay there smiling and then—to her own amazement as she thought about it afterward—actually went to sleep as she was bidden and awoke refreshed, as the little maid had said. She awoke too with a delightful sensation of anticipation, wondering how and when this astonishing child would keep her promise of another visit. Nay, she would not send for her lest it mar the charming spontaneity of the occasion and, had Miriam but known of this, she might also have known that Adah was not accustomed to looking forward with pleasure. To her, life had become a weary round of sameness with dread calamity as its certain goal.
CHAPTER XI
CONFESSION
Somewhere out on the Syrian hills a shepherd was engaged in a most interesting occupation. At the door of the sheepfold he was holding a light rod, forked at one end, under which the flock passed as he counted. It was always the last task of the evening.
“Seventy-five, seventy-six, seventy-seven. So far nothing hath disturbed thee through the day now gone. Seventy-eight, seventy-nine. Nay, Master Bold, thou wilt wait thy turn. Eighty, eighty-one, eighty-two. Come, thou timid one, thy mother is already in and calleth for thee. Eighty-three, eighty-four, eighty-five. Now, Bright Eyes, what mischief art thou up to? This rod is a means of counting, but it can be turned into a means of punishment if it be necessary to make thee see thy duty. Eighty-six, eighty-seven. Nay, not so much crowding there. Youth is eager, knowing not that time is long and weariness certain. Eighty-eight, eighty-nine, ninety. What, my pearl, the heat of the day hath been too much for thee? Wait thou.”
The shepherd hastily dipped his fingers in the horn of olive oil that hung at his belt and anointed its temples.
“There, so shalt thou be refreshed, and here, do thou drink of this cup of cold water which overfloweth for thee.”