“Thus hast thou been to me always, my beloved, blessed child,” said Raguel, fondly, as Myrrah read the brave, heroic choice of Ruth; “since thy mother’s death thou hast been my chief blessing in this strange land.”
“But thou, dear father, thou art mine own; thou hast been to me all the joy, the best joy I have ever known. It is no deed of charity to keep always with thee, for I should die to leave thee—there is nothing I should care to live for, wert thou gone.”
“Nay, child, say not that. I know that many a time thou hast refused to join thy young friends in their merry-making, solely that thou mightest be with me, thy stupid, dull old father. But this cannot be always, Myrrah, for I am old, and my Master will call me hence while thou art yet young.”
“Father! father!” Myrrah exclaimed, “do not speak so! God will not take thee from me. He will not leave me alone!”
“Not alone, Myrrah, darling, I trust Thou hast not surely forgotten Othniel? I would that he were here to day with us. He wanders long.”
“He will come soon, I know. I would he were here now—he is so skillful, and might easily restore thy health, dear father.”
“It is not in him, nor in any human physician to do that; but I long to see him; then I should be at rest, for thou, my child, wouldst have a comforter, and a steady friend if —”
“Say it not, oh Father! what is even he to me when compared with thee!”
“Thy blessing, father—my father!” exclaimed the youth, coming out swiftly from the shade, his countenance and his voice betraying the strong agitation of his spirit. “I have come home for thy blessing!” and the young man knelt down at the old Jew’s feet.
“My Othniel!” cried Myrrah, in joyous astonishment, her tears suddenly giving way to the brightest of smiles.