'"Well, good night," he said, taking Naomi's hand, but not looking into her blind face.
'"Good night," she answered, and then, after a moment, she flung her arms about his neck, and kissed him.
'He laughed lightly, and turned to Israel.
'"Good night, father," he said, in a shrill voice.
'"A safe journey to you, my son," said Israel, "and may you do all my errands."
'"God burn my great-grandfather if I do not," said Ali stoutly.
'But with that word of his country his brave daring at length broke down, and drawing Israel aside, that Naomi might not hear, he whispered, sobbing and stammering, "When—when I am gone, don't—don't tell her that I was black."
'Then, in an instant, he fled away.
'"In peace!" cried Israel after him; "in peace! my brave boy, simple, noble, loyal heart."'
Comment seems impossible. All one can do is to read aloud, in a low and reverent tone, a passage like this from the pages of the Westminster Review:
Mr. Hall Caine's novels afford evidence of a pronounced individuality of genius, which is calculated to count as a potent factor. Mr. Caine is essentially a romanticist. His romance is the romance of reality. He combines moral sanity with imaginative fervour, truth of emotion with strength of passion, and thus succeeds in that combination of the familiar with the unfamiliar, that blending of the commonplace with the uncommon, which must ever remain the essence of romantic achievement.
Viewed in this light, what a gigantic coup is that phrase about the 'soft and playful lisp that ran in and out among the simple words that fell from her
