This was the question which Naomi asked herself when she arose next morning, to see another peerless summer day smiling at her, but to feel none of the joy of harvest; only a heart as dull and desolate as if she had awakened to find herself amidst some dwindled hope-forsaken band hemmed round by Arctic seas. What was summer to her, or harvest, or all the common joys of life--joys that gladden hearts which are _not_ broken? All through the feverish wakeful night the same doubt had agitated Naomi’s mind. Might not her lover have repented and returned to her? So blessed a thing was just possible. He had loved her dearly once; surely that old love could not die. He had often told her that love …
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