Joel: A Boy of Galilee

"Come here, my son," he called. "Stand right here in front of me, and look just where I point. What do you see?"

The child peered anxiously into the blue depths just now lit up by the sunset.

"Oh, the new moon!" he cried. "Where did it come from?"

"Summer hath dropped her silver sickle there, that Night may go forth to harvest in her star-fields," answered the old man. Then seeing the look of inquiry on the boy's face, hastened to add, "Nay, it is the censer that God's hand set swinging in the sky, to remind us to keep the incense of our praises ever rising heavenward. Even now a messenger may be running towards the Temple, to tell the Sanhedrin that it has appeared. Yea, other eyes have been sharper than mine, for see! Already the beacon light has been kindled on the Mount of Olives!"

Jesse watched the great bonfire a few minutes, then ran to call his sister. By the time they were both on the roof, answering fires were blazing on the distant hilltops throughout all Judea, till the whole land was alight with the announcement of the Feast of the New Moon.

"I wish it could be this way every night, don't you, Ruth?" said Jesse. "Are you not glad we are here?"

The old man looked down at the children with a pleased smile. "I'll show you something prettier than this, before long," he said. "Just wait till the Feast of Weeks, when the people all come to bring the first fruits of the harvests. I am glad your visit is in this time of the year, for you can see one festival after another."

The day the celebration of the Feast of Weeks commenced, Reuben left his shop in charge of the attendants, and gave up his entire time to Joel and Jesse.

"We must not miss the processions," he said. "We will go outside the gates a little way, and watch the people come in."

They did not have long to wait till the stream of people from the upper countries began to pour in; each company carried a banner bearing the name of the town from which it came. A white ox, intended for a peace-offering, was driven first; its horns were gilded, and its body twined with olive wreaths.

Flocks of sheep and oxen for the sacrifice, long strings of asses and camels bearing free-will gifts to the Temple, or old and helpless pilgrims that could not walk, came next.

There were wreaths of roses on the heads of the women and children; bands of lilies were tied around the sheaves of wheat. Piled high in the silver vessels of the rich, or peeping from the willow baskets of the poor, were the choicest fruits of the harvest.

Great bunches of grapes from whose purple globes the bloom had not been brushed, velvety nectarines, tempting pomegranates, mellow pears, juicy melons,—these offerings of fruit and flowers gleamed all down the long line, for no one came empty-handed up this "Hill of the Lord."

As they drew near the gates, a number of white-robed priests from the Temple met them. Reuben lifted Jesse in his arms that he might have a better view. "Listen," he said. Joel climbed up on a large rock.

A joyful sound of flutes commenced, and a mighty chorus went up: "I was glad when they said unto me, let us go into the house of the Lord. Our feet shall stand within thy gates, O Jerusalem!"

Voice after voice took up the old psalm, and Reuben's deep tones joined with the others, as they chanted, "Peace be within thy walls, and prosperity within thy palaces!"

Following the singing pilgrims to the Temple, they saw the priests take the doves that were to be for a burnt-offering, and the first fruits that were to be laid on the altars.

Jesse held fast to his grandfather's hand as they passed through the outer courts of the Temple. He was half frightened by the din of voices, the stamping and bellowing and bleating of the animals as they were driven into the pens.

He had seen one sacrificial service; the great stream of blood pouring over the marble steps of the altar, and the smoke of the burnt-offering were still in his mind. It made him look pityingly now at the gentle-eyed calves and the frightened lambs. He was glad to get away from them.

Soon after the time of this rejoicing was over, came ten solemn days that to Joel were full of interest and mystery. They were the days of preparation for the Fast of the Atonement. Disputes between neighbors were settled, and sins confessed.

The last great day, the most solemn of all, was the only time in the whole year when the High Priest might draw aside the veil, and enter into the Holy of Holies.

With all his rich robes and jewels laid aside, clad only in simple white, with bare feet and covered head, he had to go four times into the awful Presence. Once to offer incense, once to pray, to sprinkle the blood of a goat towards the mercy-seat, and then to bring out the censer.

That was the day when two goats were taken; by casting lots one was chosen for a sacrifice. On the other the High Priest laid the sins of the people, and it was driven out into the wilderness, to be dashed to pieces from some high cliff.

Tears came into Joel's eyes, as he watched the scape-goat driven away into the dreary desert. He pitied the poor beast doomed to such a death because of his nation's sins.

Then came the closing ceremonies, when the great congregation bowed themselves three times to the ground, with the High Priest shouting solemnly, "Ye are clean! Ye are clean! Ye are clean!"

Joel was glad when the last rite was over, and the people started to their homes, as gay now as they had been serious before.

"When are we going back to our other home?" asked Ruth, one day.

"Why, are you not happy here, little daughter?" said Abigail. "I thought you had forgotten all about the old place."

"I want my white pigeons," she said, with a quivering lip, as if she had suddenly remembered them. "I don't want my father not to be here!" she sobbed; "and I want my white pigeons!"

Abigail picked her up and comforted her. "Wait just a little while. I think father will surely come soon. I will get my embroidery, and you may go with me across the street."

Ruth had been shy at first about going to see her mother's friends; but Martha coaxed her in with honey cakes she baked for that express purpose, and Mary told her stories and taught her little games.

After a while she began to flit in and out of the house as fearlessly as a bright-winged butterfly.

One day her mother was sitting with the sisters in a shady corner of their court-yard, where a climbing honeysuckle made a cool sweet arbor. Ruth was going from one to the other, watching the bright embroidery threads take the shape of flowers under their skilful fingers. Suddenly she heard the faint tinkle of a silver bell. While she stood with one finger on her lip to listen, Lazarus came into the court-yard.

"See what I have brought you, little one," he said. "It is to take the place of the pigeons you are always mourning for."

It was a snow-white lamb, around which he had twined a garland of many colored flowers, and from whose neck hung the little silver bell she had heard.

At first the child was so delighted she could only bury her dimpled fingers in the soft fleece, and look at it in speechless wonder. Then she caught his hand, and left a shy little kiss on it, as she lisped, "Oh, you're so good! You're so good!"

After that day Ruth followed Lazarus as the white lamb followed Ruth; and the sisters hardly knew which sounded sweeter in their quiet home, the tinkling of the silver bell, or the happy prattle of the baby voice.

Abigail spent many happy hours with her friends. One day as they sat in the honeysuckle arbor, busily sewing, Ruth and Jesse came running towards them.

"I see my father coming, and another man," cried the boy. "I'm going to meet them."

They all hastened to the door, just as the tired, dusty travellers reached it.

"Peace be to this house, and all who dwell therein," said the stranger, before Phineas could give his wife and friends a warmer greeting.

"We went first to your father's house, but, finding no one at home, came here," said Phineas.

"Come in!" insisted Martha. "You look sorely in need of rest and refreshment."

But they had a message to deliver before they could be persuaded to eat or wash.

"The Master is coming," said Phineas. "He has sent out seventy of His followers, to go by twos into every town, and herald His approach, and proclaim that the day of the Lord is at hand. We have gone even into Samaria to carry the tidings there."

"At last, at last!" cried Mary, clasping her hands. "Oh, to think that I have lived to see this day of Israel's glory!"

"Tell us what the Master has been doing," urged Abigail, after the men had been refreshed by food and water.

First one and then the other told of miracles they had seen, and repeated what He had taught. Even the children crept close to listen, leaning against their father's knees.

"There has been much discussion about the kingdom that is to be formed. While we were in Peter's house in Capernaum, some of the disciples came quarrelling around Him, to ask who should have the highest positions. I suppose those who have followed Him longest think they have claim to the best offices."

"What did He say?" asked Abigail, eagerly.

Phineas laid his hand on Ruth's soft curls. "He took a little child like this, and set it in our midst, and said that he who would be greatest in His kingdom, must become even like unto it!"

"Faith and love and purity on the throne of the Herods," cried Martha. "Ah, only Jehovah can bring such a thing as that to pass!"

"Are you going to stay at home now, father?" asked Jesse, anxiously.

"No, my son. I must go on the morrow to carry my report to the Master, of the reception we have had in every town. But I will soon be back again to the Feast of Tabernacles."

"Carry with you our earnest prayer that the Master will abide with us when He comes again to Bethany," said Martha, as her guests departed. "No one is so welcome in our home, as the friend of our brother Lazarus."

The preparation for the Feast of the Tabernacles had begun. "I am going to take the children to the city with me to-day!" said Reuben, one morning, "to see the big booth I am having built. It will hold all our family, and as many friends as may care to share it with us."

Jesse was charmed with the great tent of green boughs.

"I wish I could have been one of the children that Moses led up out of Egypt," he said, with a sigh.

"Why, my son?" asked Reuben.

"So's I could have wandered around for forty years, living in a tent like this. How good it smells, and how pretty it is! I wish you and grandmother would live here all the time!"

The next day Phineas joined them. It was a happy family that gathered in the leafy booth for a week of out-door rejoicing in the cool autumn time.

"Where is the Master?" asked Abigail.

"I know not," answered her husband. "He sent us on before."

"Will He be here, I wonder?" she asked, and that question was on nearly every lip in Jerusalem.

"Will He be here?" asked the throngs of pilgrims who had heard of His miracles, and longed to see the man who could do such marvellous things.

"Will He be here?" whispered the scribes to the Pharisees. "Let Him beware!"

"Will He be here?" muttered Caiaphas the High Priest. "Then better one man should die, than that the whole community perish."

The sight that dazzled the eyes of the children that first evening of the week, was like fairyland; a blaze of lanterns and torches lit up the whole city.

In the Court of the Women, in the Temple, all the golden lamps were lit, twinkling and burning like countless stars.

On the steps that separated this court from the next one, stood three thousand singers, the sons and daughters of the tribe of Levi. Two priests stood at the top of the steps, and as each gave the signal on a great silver trumpet, the burst of song that went up from the vast choir seemed to shake the very heavens. Harps and psalters and flutes swelled with the rolling waves of the organ's melody. To the sound of this music, men marched with flaming torches in their hands, and the marching and a weird torch-dance were kept up until the gates of the Temple closed.

In the midst of all the feasting and the gayeties that followed, the long-expected Voice was heard in the arcades of the Temple.

The Child of Nazareth was once more in His Father's house about His Father's business.

On the last great day of the feast, Joel was up at day-break, ready to follow the older members of the family as soon as the first trumpet-blast should sound.

In his right hand he carried a citron, as did all the others; in his left was a palm-branch, the emblem of joy. An immense multitude gathered at the spring of Siloam. Water was drawn in a golden pitcher, and carried back to be poured on the great altar, while the choir sang with its thousands of voices, and all the people shouted, Amen and Amen!

When the days had gone by in which the seventy bullocks had been sacrificed, and when the ceremonies were all over, then the leaves were stripped from the green booths, and the people scattered to their homes.

Long afterward, Jesse remembered only the torch-light dances, the silver trumpets and the crowds, and the faint ringing of the fringe of bells on the priest's robes as he carried the fire on the golden shovel to burn the sweet-smelling incense.

Joel's memory rang often with two cries that had startled the people. One when the water was poured from the golden pitcher. It was the Master's voice: "If any man thirst, let him come unto me." The other was when all eyes were turned on the blazing lamps. "I am the Light of the World!"

Reuben thought oftenest of the blind man to whom he had seen sight restored. But Lazarus was filled with anxiety and foreboding; through his office of scribe, he had come in close contact with the men who were plotting against his friend. Dark rumors were afloat. The air was hot with whisperings of hate.

He had overheard a conversation between the Temple police, and some of the chief priests and Pharisees.

"Why did ye not take Him, as ye were ordered?" they demanded angrily.

"We could not," was the response; "for never man spake like this man."

He had seen the mob searching for stones to throw at Him. Though He had disappeared out of their midst unhurt, still Lazarus felt that some terrible disaster was hanging threateningly over the head of his beloved friend.

CHAPTER XII.

"I don't want my father to go away again!" she sobbed. Abigail took her in her lap and tried to comfort her, although there were tears in her own eyes.

"We will go home soon, little daughter, and then father will be with us all the time. But we must wait first, till after the cold, rainy season, and the Feast of Dedication."

"What! another feast?" asked Jesse, to whom the summer had seemed one long confusion of festivals. "Don't they have lots of them down in this country! What's this one for?"

"Grandfather will tell you," answered his mother. "Run out and ask him for the story. I know you will like it."

Seated on his grandfather's knee, Jesse doubled up his little fists, as he heard how a heathen altar had once been set up on the great altar of burnt-offering, and a heathen general had driven a herd of swine through the holy Temple, making it unclean. But his breath came quick, and his eyes shone, as the proud old Israelite told him of Judas the Maccabee, Judas the lion-hearted, who had whipped the Syrian soldiers, purified the Temple, and dedicated it anew to the worship of Jehovah.

"Our people never forget their heroes," ended the old man. "Every year, in every home, no matter how humble, one candle is lighted at the beginning of the feast; the next night, two, and the next night, three, and so on, till eight candles shine out into the winter darkness.

"For so the brave deeds of the Maccabees burn in the memory of every child of Abraham!"

The feast came and went. While the candles burned in every home, and the golden lamps in the great Temple blazed a welcome, the Nazarene came back to His Father's house, to be once more about His Father's business.

Joel caught a glimpse of Him walking up and down the covered porches in front of the Gate Beautiful. The next moment he was pushing and elbowing his way through the jostling crowds, till he stood close beside Him.

After that, the services that followed were a blank. He saw only one face,—the face that had looked into his beside the Galilee, and drawn from his heart its intensest love. He heard only one voice,—the voice he had longed for all these weeks and days. Just to be near Him! To be able to reach out reverent fingers and only touch the clothes He wore; to look up in His face, and look and look with a love that never wearied,—that was such happiness that Joel was lost to everything else!

But after a while he began to realize that it was for no friendly purpose that the chief priests came pressing around with questions.

"If Thou be the Christ, tell us plainly," they demanded. Then up and down through the long Porch of Solomon, among all its white marble pillars, they repeated His answer:—

"The works that I do in my Father's name, they bear witness of me. I and my Father are one!"

"Blasphemy!" shouted a mocking voice behind Him. "Blasphemy!" echoed Pharisee and Sadducee for once agreed. The crowds pushed and shoved between the pillars; some ran out for stones. In the confusion of the uproar, as they turned to lay violent hands on Him, He slipped out of their midst, and went quietly away.

Joel hunted around awhile for the party he had come with, but seeing neither Phineas nor Lazarus, started back to Bethany on the run. A cold winter rain had begun to fall.

None of Reuben's family had gone into Jerusalem that day on account of the weather, but were keeping the feast at home.

They were startled when the usually quiet boy burst excitedly into the house, and told them what he had just seen.

"O mother Abigail!" he cried, throwing himself on his knees beside her. "If He goes away again may I not go with Him? I cannot go back to Galilee and leave Him, unknowing what is to happen. If He is to be persecuted and driven out, and maybe killed, let me at least share His suffering, and be with Him at the last!"

"You forget that He has all power, and that His enemies can do Him no harm," said Abigail, gently. "Has He not twice walked out unharmed, before their very eyes, when they would have taken Him? And besides what good could you do, my boy? You forget you are only a child, and might not be able to stand the hardships of such a journey."

"I am almost fourteen," said Joel, stretching himself up proudly. "And I am as strong now as some of the men who go with Him. He gave me back my strength, you know. Oh, you do not know how I love Him!" he cried. "When I am away from Him, I feel as you would were you separated from Jesse and Ruth and father Phineas. My heart is always going out after Him!"

"Child, have you no care for us?" she responded reproachfully.

"Oh, do not speak so!" he cried, catching up her hand and kissing it. "I do love you; I can never be grateful enough for all you have done for me. But, O mother Abigail, you could never understand! You were never lame and felt the power of His healing. You were never burning with a wicked hatred, and felt the balm of His forgiveness! You cannot understand how He draws me to Him!"

"Let the boy have his way," spoke up Reuben. "I, too, have felt that wonderful power that draws all men to Him. Gladly would I part with every shekel I possess, if I thereby might win Him the favor of the authorities."

When once more a little band of fugitives followed their Master across the Jordan, Joel was with them.

The winter wore away, and they still tarried. Day by day, they were listening to the simple words that dropped like seeds into their memories, to spring up in after months and bear great truths. Now they heard them as half understood parables,—the good Samaritan, the barren fig-tree, the prodigal son, the unjust steward.

There was one story that thrilled Joel deeply,—the story of the lost sheep. For he recalled that stormy night in the sheepfold of Nathan ben Obed, and the shepherd who searched till dawn for the straying lamb.

It was only long afterwards that he realized it was the Good Shepherd Himself who told the story, when He was about to lay down His own life for the lost sheep of Israel.

Meanwhile in Bethany, Rabbi Reuben and his wife rejoiced that their daughter's visit stretched out indefinitely.

Jesse openly declared that he intended to stay there always, and learn to be a goldsmith like his grandfather.

Ruth, too, was happy and contented, and seemed to have forgotten that she ever had any other home. As the early spring days came on, she lived almost entirely out in the sunshine. She had fallen into the habit of standing at the gate to watch for Lazarus every evening when he came back from the Temple. As soon as she saw him turn the corner into their street, she ran to meet him, her fair curls and white dress fluttering in the wind.

No matter how tired he was, or what cares rested heavily on his mind, the pale face always lighted up, and his dark eyes smiled at her coming.

"Lazarus does not seem well, lately," she heard Martha say to her mother one day. "I have been trying to persuade him to rest a few days; but he insists he cannot until he has finished the scroll he is illuminating."

A few days after that he did not go to the city as usual. Ruth peeped into the darkened room where he was resting on a couch; his eyes were closed, and he was so pale it almost frightened her.

He did not hear her when she tiptoed into the room and out again; but the fragrance of the little stemless rose she laid on his pillow aroused him. He opened his eyes and smiled languidly, as he caught sight of her slipping noiselessly through the door.

Her mother, sewing by the window, looked out and saw her running across the street. Jesse was out in front of the house, playing with a ball.

"Who is that boy talking to Jesse?" asked Abigail of Rebecca, who stood in the doorway, holding out her arms as Ruth came up.

"Why, that is little Joseph, the only son of Simon the leper. Poor child!"

"Simon the leper," repeated Abigail. "A stranger to me."

"Surely not. Have you forgotten the wealthy young oil-seller who lived next the synagogue? He has the richest olive groves in this part of the country."

"Not the husband of my little playmate Esther!" cried Abigail. "Surely he has not been stricken with leprosy!"

"Yes; it is one of the saddest cases I ever heard of. It seems so terrible for a man honored as he has been, and accustomed to every luxury, to be such a despised outcast."

"Poor Esther!" sighed Abigail. "Does she ever see him?"

"Not now. The disease is fast destroying him; and he is such a hideous sight that he has forbidden her to ever try to see him again. Even his voice is changed. Of course he would be stoned if he were to come back. He never seeks the company of other lepers. She has had a room built for him away from the sight of men. Every day a servant carries him food and tidings. It is well that they have money, or he would be obliged to live among the tombs with others as repulsive-looking as himself, and such company must certainly be worse than none. Sometimes little Joseph is taken near enough to speak to him, that he may have the poor comfort of seeing his only child at a distance."

"What if it were my Phineas!" exclaimed Abigail, her tears dropping fast on the needlework she held. "Oh, it is a thousand times worse than death!"

Out in the street the boys were making each other's acquaintance in the off-hand way boys of that age have.

"My name is Jesse. What's yours?"

"Joseph."

"Where do you live?"

"Around the corner, next to the synagogue."

"My father is a carpenter. What's yours?"

Joseph hesitated. "He used to be an oil-seller," he said finally. "He doesn't do anything now."

"Why?" persisted Jesse.

"He is a leper now," was the reluctant answer.

A look of distress came over Jesse's face. He had seen some lepers once, and the sight was still fresh in his mind. As they were riding down from Galilee, Joel had pointed them out to him. A group of beggars with horrible scaly sores that had eaten away their flesh, till some were left without lips or eyelids; one held out a deathly white hand from which nearly all the fingers had dropped. Their hair looked like white wire, and they called out, in shrill, cracked voices, "Unclean! Unclean! Come not near us!"

"How terrible to have one's father like that," thought Jesse. A lump seemed to come up in his throat; his eyes filled with tears at the bare idea. Then, boy-like, he tossed up his ball, and forgot all about it in the game that followed.

Several days after he met Joseph and a servant who was carrying a large, covered basket and a water-bottle made of skin.

"I'm going to see my father, now," said Joseph. "Ask your mother if you can come with me."

Jesse started towards his home, then turned suddenly. "No, I'm not going to ask her, for she'll be sure to say no. I am just going anyhow."

"You'll catch it when you get home!" exclaimed Joseph.

"Well, it cannot last long," reasoned Jesse, whose curiosity had gotten the better of him. "I believe I'd rather take a whipping than not to go."

Joseph looked at him in utter astonishment.

"Yes, I would," he insisted; "so come on!"

A short walk down an unfrequented road, in the direction of Jericho, took them to a lonely place among the bare cliffs. A little cabin stood close against the rocks, with a great sycamore-tree bending over it. Near by was the entrance to a deep cave, always as cool as a cellar, even in the hottest summer days.

At the mouth of the cave sat Simon the leper. He stood up when he saw them coming, and wrapped himself closely in a white linen mantle that covered him from head to foot. It was a ghostly sight to Jesse; but to Joseph, so long accustomed to it, there seemed nothing strange.

At a safe distance the servant emptied his basket on a large flat rock, and poured the water into a stone jar standing near. Last of all, he laid a piece of parchment on the stone. It was Esther's daily letter to her exiled husband.

No matter what storms swept the valley, or what duties pressed at home, that little missive was always sent. She had learned to write for his sake. By all his friends he was accounted dead; but her love, stronger than death, bridged the gulf that separated them. She lived only to minister to his comfort as best she could.

Simon did not send as long a message in return as this trusted messenger usually carried. He had much to say to his boy, and the sun was already high.

Jesse, lagging behind in the shelter of the rock, heard the tender words of counsel and blessing that came from the white-sheeted figure with a feeling of awe.

As the father urged his boy to be faithful to every little duty, careful in learning the prayers, and above all obedient to his mother, Jesse's conscience began to prick him sorely.

"I believe I know somebody that could cure him," he said, as they picked their way over the rocks, going home. "'Cause He made Joel well."

"Who's Joel?" asked Joseph.

"A boy that lives with us. He was just as lame, and limped way over when he walked. Now he is as straight as I am. All the sick people where I lived went to Him, and they got well."

Joseph shook his head. "Lepers can't be cured. Can they, Seth?" he asked, appealing to the servant.

"No, lepers are just the same as dead," answered Seth. "There's no help for them."

Jesse was in a very uncomfortable frame of mind, as, hot and dusty, he left his companion and dragged home at a snail's pace.

Next morning Joseph was waiting for him out in front. "Well, did she whip you?" he asked, with embarrassing frankness.

"No," said Jesse, a little sheepishly. "She put me to bed just as soon as I had eaten my dinner, and made me stay there till this morning."

CHAPTER XIII.

But there came a time when Martha met her, with eyes all swollen and red from crying, and told her they had sent to the city for a skilful physician.

In the night there came a loud knocking at the door, and a call for Rabbi Reuben to come quickly, that Lazarus was worse. At day-break a messenger was sent clattering away to hurry over the Jordan in hot haste, and bring back from Perea the only One who could help them.

The noise awakened Ruth; she sat up in surprise to see her mother dressed so early. The outer door was ajar, and she heard the message that the anxious Martha bade the man deliver: "Lord, he whom Thou lovest is sick."

"He will come right away and make him well, won't He, mother?" she asked anxiously.

"Surely, my child," answered Abigail. "He loves him too well to let him suffer so."

But the day wore on, and the next; still another, and He did not come.

Ruth stole around like a frightened shadow, because of the anxious looks on every face.

"Why doesn't He come?" she wondered; and on many another lip was the same question.

She was so quiet, no one noticed when she stole into the room where her friend lay dying. Mary knelt on one side of the bed, Martha on the other, watching the breath come slower and slower, and clinging to the unresponsive hands as if their love could draw him back to life.

Neither shed a tear, but seemed to watch with their souls in their eyes, for one more word, one more look of recognition.

Abigail sat by the window, weeping softly. Ruth had never seen her mother cry before, and it frightened her. She glanced at her grandfather, standing by the foot of the bed; two great tears rolled slowly down his cheeks, and dropped on his long beard.

A sudden cry from Mary, as she fell fainting to the floor, called her attention to the bed again. Martha was silently rocking herself to and fro, in an agony of grief.

Still the child did not understand. Those in the room were so busy trying to bring Mary back to consciousness, that no one noticed Ruth.

Drawn by some impulse she could not understand, the child drew nearer and nearer. Then she laid her soft little hand on his, thinking the touch would surely make him open his eyes and smile at her again; it had often done so before.

But what was it that made her start back terrified, and shrink away trembling? It was not Lazarus she had touched, but the awful mystery of death.

"I did not know that a little child could feel so deeply," said Abigail to her mother, when she found that Ruth neither ate nor played, but wandered aimlessly around.

"I shall keep her away from the funeral."

But all her care could not keep from the little one's ears the mournful music of the funeral dirge, or the wailing of the mourners, who gathered to do honor to the young man whom all Bethany knew and loved.

Many friends came out from Jerusalem to follow the long procession to the tomb. There was a long eulogy at the grave; but the most impressive ceremony was over at last, and the great stone had to be rolled into the opening that formed the doorway.

Then the two desolate sisters went back to their lonely home and empty life, wondering how they could go on without the presence that had been such a daily benediction.

The fourth day after his death, as Martha sat listlessly looking out of the green arbor with unseeing eyes, Ruth ran in with a radiant face.

"He's come!" she cried. "He's come, and so has my father. Hurry! He is waiting for you!"

Martha drew her veil about her, and mechanically followed the eager child to the gate, where Phineas met her with the same message.

"Oh, why did He not come sooner?" she thought bitterly, as she pressed on after her guide.

Once outside of the village, she drew aside her veil. There stood the Master, with such a look of untold sympathy on His worn face, that Martha cried out, "Lord, if Thou hadst been here my brother had not died!"

"Thy brother shall rise again," He said gently.

"Yes, I know he shall rise again in the resurrection, at the last day," she said brokenly. "That brings hope for the future; but what comfort is there for the lonely years we must live without him?" The tears streamed down her face again.

Then for the first time came those words that have brought balm into thousands of broken hearts, and hope into countless tear-blind eyes.

"I am the resurrection and the life. He that believeth in me shall never die. Believest thou this?"

Martha looked up reverently. "Yea, Lord, I believe that Thou art the Christ, the Son of God which should come into the world."

A great peace came over her troubled spirit as she hurried to her home, where the many friends still sat who had come to comfort them. A number of them were from Jerusalem, and she knew that among them were some who were unfriendly to her brother's friend.

So she quietly called her sister from the room, whispering, "The Master is come, and calleth for thee!"

Those who sat there thought they were going to the grave to weep, as was the custom. So they rose also, and followed at a little distance.

Mary met Him with the same exclamation that her sister had uttered, and fell at His feet.

He, seeing in her white face the marks of the deep grief she had suffered, was thrilled to the depths of His humanity by the keenest sympathy. His tears fell too, at the sight of hers.

"Behold how He loved Lazarus!" said a man to the one who stood beside him.

"Why did He not save him then?" was the mocking answer.

"They say He has the power to open the eyes of the blind, and even to raise the dead. Let Him show it in this case!"

It was a curious crowd that followed Him to the door of the tomb: men who hated Him for the scorching fire-brands of rebuke He had thrown into their corrupt lives; men who feared Him as a dangerous teacher of false doctrines; men who knew His good works, but hesitated either to accept or refuse; and men who loved Him better than life,—all waiting, wondering what He would do.

"Roll the stone away!" He commanded; a dozen strong shoulders bent to do His bidding. Then He looked up and spoke in a low tone, but so distinctly that no one lost a word.

"Father," He said,—He seemed to be speaking to some one just beside Him,—"I thank Thee that Thou hast heard me, and I knew that Thou hearest me always: but because of the people which stand by I said it, that they may believe that Thou hast sent me."

A cold shiver of expectancy ran over those who heard. Then He cried, in a loud voice, "Lazarus, come forth!" There was a dreadful pause. Some of the women clutched each other with frightened shrieks; even strong men fell back, as out of the dark grave walked a tall figure wrapped in white grave-clothes.

His face was hidden in a napkin. "Loose him, and let him go," said the Master, calmly.

Phineas stepped forward and loosened the outer bands. When the napkin fell from his face, they saw he was deathly white; but in an instant a warm, healthful glow took the place of the corpse-like pallor.

Not till he spoke, however, could the frightened people believe that it was Lazarus, and not a ghost they saw.

Never had there been such a sight since the world began: the man who had lain four days in the tomb, walking side by side with the man who had called him back to life.

The streets were full of people, laughing, shouting, crying, fairly beside themselves with astonishment.

Smiths left their irons to cool on the anvils; bakers left their bread to burn in the ovens; the girl at the fountain dropped her half-filled pitcher; and a woman making cakes ran into the street with the dough in her hands.

Every house in the village stood empty, save one where a sick man moaned for water all unheeded, and another where a baby wakened in its cradle and began to cry.

Long after the reunited family had gone into their home with their nearest friends, and shut the door on their overwhelming joy, the crowds still stood outside, talking among themselves.

Many who had taken part against the Master before, now believed on account of what they had seen. But some still said, more openly than before, "He is in league with the evil one, or He could not do such things." These hurried back to Jerusalem, to spread the report that this dangerous man had again appeared, almost at the very gates of the great Capital.

That night there was a secret council of the chief priests and the Pharisees. "What shall we do," was the anxious question. "If we let Him alone, all men will believe on Him; and the Romans shall come and take away both our place and our nation."

Every heart beat with the same thought, but only Caiaphas put it in words. At last he dared repeat what he had only muttered to himself before: "It is expedient for us that one man should die for the people, and that the whole nation perish not."

While the streets were still full of people, Jesse crept up to Joel, as they sat together in the court-yard. "Don't you think it would be just as easy to cure a leper as to raise Rabbi Lazarus from the dead?"

"Yes, indeed!" answered Joel, positively, "I've seen it done."

"Oh, have you?" cried the boy, in delight. "Then Joseph can have his father back again."

He told him the story of Simon the leper, and of his visit to the lonely cave.

Joel's sympathies were aroused at once. Ever since his own cure, he had felt that he must bring every afflicted one in the wide world to the great source of healing.

Just then a man stopped at the gate to ask for Phineas. Joel had learned to know him well in the weeks they had been travelling together; it was Thomas.

The boy sprang up eagerly. "Do you know when the Master is going to leave Bethany?" he asked.

"In the morning," answered Thomas, "and right glad I am that it is to be so soon. For when we came down here, I thought it was but to die with Him. He is beset on all sides by secret enemies."

"And will He go out by the same road that we came?"

"It is most probable."

Joel waited for no more information from him, but went back to Jesse to learn the way to the cave.

Jesse was a little fellow, but a keen-eyed one, and was able to give Joel the few simple directions that would lead him the right way.

"Oh, I'm so glad you are going!" he exclaimed. "Shall I run and tell Joseph what you are going to do?"

"No, do not say a word to any one," answered Joel. "I shall be back in a very short time."

CHAPTER XIV.