Her father loved her and was wrapped up in her.
She was his only child, and his wife was dead, and he was a lonely man.
He was away from his home now, and if, when he returned, the girl were gone and lost--if she were dead and buried--his strong heart would be broken and his very soul in peril.
Such was the Taleb's prayer, and such was the scene of it--the dumb angel of white and crimson turning and tossing on the bed in an aureole of her streaming yellow hair, and the four black faces about her, eager and hot and aflame, with closed eyelids and open lips, calling down mercy out of heaven from the God that might be seen by the soul alone.
And so it was, but whether by chance or Providence let no man dare to tell, that even while the four black people were yet on their knees by the bed, the turning and tossing of the white face stopped suddenly and Naomi lay still on her pillow.

The hot flush faded from her cheeks; her features, which had twitched, were quiet; and her hands, which had been restless, lay at peace on the counterpane.
The good old Taleb took this for an answer to his prayer, and he shouted "El hamdu l'Illah!" (Praise be to God), while the big drops coursed down the deep furrows of his streaming face.

And then, as if to complete the miracle, and to establish the old man's faith in it, a strange and wondrous thing befell.

First, a thin watery humour flowed from one of Naomi's ears, and after that she raised herself on her elbow.

Her eyes were open as if they saw; her lips were parted as though they were breaking into a smile; she made a long sigh like one who has slept softly through the night and has just awakened in the morning.
Then, while the black people held their breath in their first moment of surprise and gladness, her parted lips gave forth a sound.