"Then other men are fools. What I say is true. I feel it ring in me, that it is the truth. Benjamin, my brother, is it not so? Ha!" She was raising the wine-cup; he checked her with his eager, extended hand. "See, Benjamin, how this mysterious thing is done, this raising of the hand. _We_ raise the cup to drink. An ugly thing--let it be done and forgotten. But when _she_ lifts the cup it is a thing to be remembered; how her fingers curve and the weight of the cup presses into them, and how her wrist droops." She lowered the cup hastily and put her hand before her face. "I see," said Connor dryly. "Bah!" cried the master of the Garden. "You do not see. But you, Ruth, are you angry? Are you shamed?" He drew down her hands, frowning with intense anxiety. Her face was crimson. "No," she said faintly. "He says that he sees, but he does not see," went on David. "He is blind, this Benjamin of mine. I show him my noblest grove of the eucalyptus trees, each tree as tall as a hill, as proud as a king, as beautiful as a thought that springs up from the earth. I show him these glorious trees. What does he say? 'You could build a whole town out of that wood!' Bah! Is that seeing? No, he is blind! Such a man would give you hard work to do. But I say to you, Ruth, that to be beautiful is to be wise, and industrious, and good. Surely you are to me like the rising of the sun--my heart leaps up! And you are like the coming of the night making the world beautiful and mysterious. For behind your eyes and behind your words, out of the sound of your voice and your glances, I guess at new things, strange things, hidden things. Treasures which cannot be held in the hands. Should you grow as old as Elijah, withered, meager as a grasshopper, the treasures would still be there. I, who have seen them, can never forget them!" Once more she covered her eyes with her hand, and David started up from his chair. "What have I done?" he asked faintly of Connor. He hurried around the table to her. "Look up! How have I harmed you?" "I am only tired," she said. "I am a fool! I should have known. Come!" said David. He drew her from the chair and led her across the lawn, supporting her. At her door: "May sleep be to you like the sound of running water," murmured David. And when the door was closed he went hastily back to Connor. _CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX_ "What have I done? What have I done?" he kept moaning. "She is in pain. I have hurt her." "Sit down," said Connor, deeply amused. It had been a curious revelation to him, this open talk of a man who was falling in love. He remembered the way he had proposed to a girl, once: "Say, Betty, don't you think you and me would hit it off pretty well, speaking permanently?" This flaunting language was wholly ludicrous to Connor. It was book-stuff. David had obeyed him with childlike docility, and sat now like a pupil about to be corrected by the master.