“Oh, I see,” he answered, feeling it no time to enter upon another discussion as to the comparative advantages of their two professions. “What are you goin' ter spiel about to-day?” “About Ruth and Naomi.” “Ruth and who?” “Naomi,” he repeated. “Naomi,” she echoed, tilting her head from side to side, as she listened to the soft cadences of the word. “I never heard that name afore. It 'ud look awful swell on a billboard, wouldn't it?” “It's a Bible name, honey,” Mandy said, eager to get into the conversation. “Dar's a balful picture 'bout her. I seed it.” “I LIKE to look at PICTURES,” Polly answered tentatively. Mandy crossed the room to fetch the large Bible with its steel engravings. “We got a girl named Ruth in our 'Leap of Death' stunt. Some of the folks is kinder down on 'er, but I ain't.” She might have told Douglas more of her forlorn, little friend, but just then Mandy came to the bed, hugging a large, old-fashioned Bible, and Douglas helped to place the ponderous book before the invalid. “See, honey, dar dey is,” the old woman said, pointing to the picture of Ruth and Naomi. “Them's crackerjacks, ain't they?” Polly gasped, and her eyes shone with wonder. “Which one 's Ruth?” “Dis one,” said Mandy, pointing with her thumb. “Why, they're dressed just like our chariot drivers. What does it say about 'em?” “You can read it for yourself,” Douglas answered gently. There was something pathetic in the eagerness of the starved little mind. “Well, I ain't much on readin'--OUT LOUD,” she faltered, growing suddenly conscious of her deficiencies. “Read it for me, will you?” “Certainly,” and he drew his chair nearer to the bed. One strong hand supported the other half of the Bible, and his head was very near to hers as his deep, full voice pronounced the solemn words in which Ruth pleaded so many years before. “'Entreat me not to leave thee,'” he read, “'or to return from following after thee, for whither thou goest I will go, and where thou lodgest I will lodge. Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.'” He stopped to ponder over the poetry of the lines. “Kind o' pretty, ain't it?” Polly said softly. She felt awkward and constrained and a little overawed. “There are far more beautiful things than that,” Douglas assured her enthusiastically, as the echo of many such rang in his ears. “There are?” And her eyes opened wide with wonder. “Yes, indeed,” he replied, pitying more and more the starvation of mind and longing to bring to it floods of light and enrichment. “I guess I'd LIKE to hear YOU spiel,” and she fell to studying him solemnly. “You would?” he asked eagerly. “Is there any more to that story?” she asked, ignoring his question. “Yes, indeed.” “Would you read me a little more?” She was very humble now. “Where thou diest will I die, and there will I be buried; the Lord do so to me and more also, if ought but death part me and thee.'”