“The sun is a fire in the sky,” Naomi answered; “my Father lights it every morning.”
“Truly, little one, thy Father lights it,” said Israel; “thy Father which is in heaven.”
“Sweetheart,” he said again, “what is darkness?”
“Oh, darkness is cold,” said Naomi promptly, and she seemed to shiver.
“Then the light must be warmth, little one?” said Israel.
“Yes, and noise,” she answered; and then she added quickly, “Light is alive.”
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.