He was reminded of the one as often as in the daytime he climbed the hillside above his little dwelling and saw the white town lying far away under its gauzy canopy of mist, and whenever in the night the town lamps sent their pale sheet of light into the dark sky.
"They are yonder," he would think, "wrangling, contending, fighting, praying, cursing, blessing, and cheating; and I am here, cut off from them by ten deep miles of darkness, in the quiet, the silence, and sweet odour of God's proper air." But stronger to sustain him than any memory of the ways of his former life was the recollection of Naomi.

God had given back all her gifts, and what were poverty and hard toil against so great a blessing?
They were as dust, they were as ashes, they were what power of the world and riches of gold and silver had been without it.

And higher than the joy of Israel's constant remembrance that Naomi had been blind and could now see, and deaf and could now hear, and dumb and could now speak, was the solemn thought that all this was but the sign and symbol of God's pleasure and assurance to his soul that the lot of the scapegoat had been lifted away.
More satisfying still to the hunger of his heart as a man was his delicious pleasure in Naomi's new-found life.

She was like a creature born afresh, a radiant and joyful being newly awakened into a world of strange sights.
But it was not at once that she fell upon this pleasure.

What had happened to her was, after all, a simple thing.