On this morning, as Myrrah’s hand unclasped the precious books, they opened at the pages on which were recorded the beautiful and touching story of Ruth’s devotion to the mother of her dead husband. As with tremulous voice she read of the sudden and awful bereavement of the young, loving wife in the strange country, another listener approached, and stood, until the story was concluded, in the shade of the great trees. The new comer was also young, and his features bore witness that he was a descendant of the ancient Jews. But there was a gallant boldness, not often perceivable in that down-trodden people, in the frank, manly expression of countenance, in his garb, and the manner in which it was worn, in the very attitude he had chosen. With a look of deepest love, his eyes fixed on the unconscious reader, his ear drunk in the sweet sounds of her voice, eagerly as the parched traveler in the desert bends to the cooling fountains; but he did not listen to the words she uttered; it was as though an angel were singing to him, and in the delight with which he heard her voice, he lost the burden of the song she sung. “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. “My son! my son, thou hast come at last! ten thousand blessings be upon thy head.” -----