irst that Mr. Hichens was honest, even
good in an unlovely fashion; and by many small daily tests she had
proved this. Was it possible that Mr. Hichens had ever gathered roses
in his youth? Was it possible that, expecting Heaven and professing a
spiritual joy in redemption, a man could symbolise his soul's state by
wearing these dingy weeds? Had he no sense of congruity, or was all
religion so false in grain that it perverted not only the believer's
judgment but his very senses, turning white into black for him, and
making beauty and ugliness change places?

"For my part," said Mr. Hichens wistfully, "I regret the interruption;
for I had even played with the thought of teaching you some Hebrew."
He paused and sighed. "But doubtless the Almighty denies us these small
pleasures for our good. . . . Shall we begin with our repetition?
I forget the number of the Psalm?"

"The forty-fifth," said Ruth, finding the place and handing him the
book. "_My heart is inditing of a good matter: I speak of the things
which I have made unto the king_." . . . She recited the opening lines
very quietly, but her voice lifted at the third verse. Beautiful words
always affected her poignantly, but the language of the Bible more
poignantly than any other, because her own unforgettable injury had been
derived from it and sanctioned by it, and because at the base of things
our enemies in this world are dearer to us than friends. They cling
closer.

Yet,--and paradox though it be--the Bible was the more alive to her
because, on Mr. Langton's hint, she had taken it like any other book,
ignoring the Genevan division of verses and the sophisticated chapter
headings. Thus studied, it had revenged itself by taking possession of
her. It held all the fascination of the East, and little by little
unlocked it--Abraham at his tent door, Rebekah by the fountain, her own
namesake Ruth in the dim threshing-floor of Boaz, King Saul wrestling
with his dark hour, the last loathly years of David, Jezebel at the
window, Job on his dung-heap, Athaliah murdering the seed royal, and
again Athaliah dragged forth by the stable-way and calling _Treason!
Treason!_ . . . Bedouins with strings of camels, scent of camels by the
city gate, clashing of distant cymbals, hush of fear--plot and
counterplot in the apartments of the women--outcries, lusts, hates--
blood on the temple steps--blood oozing, welling across the gold--blood
caking in spots upon illimitable d