Preface by Eric Parker

Foreword by Rev. A. H. E. Lee, M.A. (Oxon)

I  II  III  IV  V  VI VII  VIII  IX  X  

XI  XII  XIII  XIV  XV  XVI XVII  XVIII  XIX  XX  

XXI  XXII  XXIII  XXIV  XXV  XXVI XXVII  XXVIII  XXIX    

XXX  XXXI  XXXII  XXXIII  XXXIV  XXXV  XXXVI XXXVII  XXXVIII  

XXXIX  XL  XLI  XLII  XLIII  XLIV  XLV  XLVI XLVII  XLVIII  XLIX

 L  LI  LII  LIII  LIV

PREFACE

This is a beautiful book. I do not know in what way it came into being, but I should describe it as a sort of vision, with a strange light illuminating the narrative, which carries the reader into unexpected trains of thought and into a sort of unearthly travelling into unknown places. Thus the idea of Jesus being an unskilled carpenter cuts across what perhaps may be called the conventions of tradition, and the journeying of Jesus with Heli and the desert tribe owes nothing in its conception to anything I have read anywhere else.

I do not know whether the writer has been in Palestine, but I feel sure that anyone who has will recognise the atmosphere, and yet you will feel that there is what I can only call a kind of other world about all the region in which the action takes place. Yet the characters are intensely human; they live and move and have their being, as separate men and women, behaving as we should expect them to behave when we have come to know them. Of the central Figure, I think the first feeling I have had is of His lovableness, and it is that sense of lovableness that creates beauty in the book. But the language too, is strangely beautiful, and speaking as one who has read many books, and has advised publishers on the merits of manuscripts, I should say that this book would appeal to a large public.

ERIC PARKER

FOREWORD

by

Rev. A. H. E. Lee, M.A.

There are, it may be said, some silences that are more eloquent than words: and in the Gospel narrative perhaps the most notable is the long stretch of silence in the life of Christ between His early visit to the Temple and His reaching the age of thirty. It is impressive, but only as a fact. Nothing can be proved or disproved from it. We are confronted by the strange circumstance that He who of all humanity perhaps needed least preparation seems to have had most. We are left to judge whether or not this was due to some mode of the divine humility, or whether the evangelists here (and in the case of the risen Lazarus) were inwardly guided to abstain from writing.

The Script which follows fills not unworthily the gap left by the Canonical Gospels. The difficulties, trials and waverings of the Virgin Mother are sympathetically treated. Joseph, no longer the somewhat shadowy figure disappearing so quickly from the Gospel narrative, comes to life, without any attempt on the writer's part, to glorify or belittle his character. The Boy is the true father of the Man: such an incident as that related on p. 178 might easily be the germ of the concluding part of the Parable of the Prodigal Son. Exactly who Mary Clopas was has never been quite settled by the critics, but she may quite well have been Joseph's sister. Certain readers may resent the idea that the Blessed Virgin bore other children after the First born. But theologians are still divided between the (Helvidian) theory, that the 'brethren' were later sons of Joseph and Mary, and the (Epiphanian) theory that they were sons of Joseph by an earlier marriage; and no final verdict has been given.

It might be said that the interviews with Sichem, the Pharisee, shew precociousness not quite in harmony with the Gospel narrative: but the story is by no means incredible. The steady faith of Mary Clopas the friendly Sichem-the wandering beggar Heli-the timid James-the aged Zireeta-the Tribe of the Wanderers-the strange (but by no means improbable) friendship between Annas and Quirinius-all these combine in forming an appropriate background to the growth in wisdom and stature of the central Figure. We notice the gradual formation of those habits of retirement into mountain or forest which are so clearly marked in the Gospel story. We see the petty persecutions-the misunderstandings and jealousies-beginning here, which culminated in the rejection of the Prophet by the people of Nazareth and their attempt to kill him.

One quotation may suffice. Leah, child of Joseph and Mary, is dangerously ill. Heli the wanderer, who has taught the young Nazarene something of the healing art, says: " 'Go now to Nazareth. Turn neither to the right nor to the left, but travel swiftly to thy father's house. Thou mayest smite the evil. Thou art in the measure of the melody that floweth from the Great Power. One counsel I give thee. Be not afraid. Fear is nothing but the betrayal of the succour offered by the Spirit. Be not roused to wrath, be not stirred by grief. Let not any wind of passion penetrate thine understanding. For the shaken mind and body cannot serve the Great Power.' Jesus bowed His head . . . and vanished. And the strange wanderer . . . murmured: 'if he but knew. Already he is master, already the Spirit gathereth about him with a power that never gathered about me. . . . Pure as no other is pure. Innocent as no other is innocent. Will he ever remain thus unspotted by the world?"' (p. 166).

The narrative flows smoothly and easily onwards; and these pages breathe the calm atmosphere of the Galilean countryside while the strong arm of Rome kept the world at peace. Youth and its problems are very much in the air today. This book should be specially welcome to all who would know something of the early training of One who loved the young.

CHAPTER I

In the time when the Jews were much vexed in spirit because of the yoke of the Romans, a young fisherman and his wife dwelt on the shores of the sea of Galilee. These two, the man of ships and nets and the maid he had taken to wife were simple of soul and cared but for one another, not seeking the company of their neighbours or of their own kin. They were sufficient unto themselves and well content to live to themselves.

Out of their great love was born a child whom they named Mary, and for a space she rejoiced their hearts. But as the years passed no more children were given to them, and the fisherman sorrowed because he feared that his name would not endure; inasmuch as no son was his. Therefore he lost his joy in his wife and in his life of peaceful labour upon the waters.

In the presence of the growing child he spoke of his sorrow to her mother and to Zireeta, his own mother who dwelt in his house. And Mary, the maid, was troubled in soul because she feared that in some way she had erred, that she was the cause of her father's heaviness of spirit. So she spoke to the old woman, saying: I have displeased my father, for I am no son to him, and how may I comfort him?"

The old woman answered: "Thou canst not change what hath been written. Behold, thy father yearneth for a son who will break the yoke of the Romans, free God's people and raise Israel above all the nations of the earth."

And when Mary questioned Zireeta further she spoke of a man who would be a horn of salvation, who would wrest the Holy City from its conquerors and make of the Jews a great people.

"Then I may not serve because I am a maid?" asked Mary, her countenance shewing her heaviness of heart. Zireeta kissed her, smiling and saying: "Strange are the ways of the Lord, hidden His purpose. Peradventure when thou art grown thou wilt bear a son who will be greater than Judas Maccabeus, who will be a prophet and a light to lighten the Gentiles; causing them to bow down before the God of Israel. Verily, no man in his generation can tell what marvel may arise in some future time through the woman who hath been chosen to bear a son."

Mary had but small understanding of the words of the old woman, but they made her well content. From henceforth she was the most joyful among the children who played upon the shores of the sea of Galilee. She followed the custom of her parents, and did not seek the company of those of her kin or generation, abiding with her mother.

As the seasons passed the old grief faded from the mind of the fisherman. He declared that it was the will of God that his desire for a son should not be granted. So these four who dwelt together joyed in the present hour. And it would seem that in other matters God had blessed them abundantly, for the fisherman prospered. Such was his skill, his nets were weighty with silver fish, that when sold by him, brought money that gave increase and prosperous days.

They dwelt in a land of sunshine and of flowers. No angry bitterness of winter smote them, no sun burned up their garden in the warm season, for it was plenteously watered. They had all that they desired, and Mary grew in stature and in grace, opening as a flower in that happy time. The hours sped as swiftly as a weaver's shuttle, her mother sang as she worked about the house and the old woman murmured prayers of thanksgiving for the great wonder and joy of such love and prosperity. Other men and women were troubled either by poverty or by their own quarrels and little cares, but these two children of hers-the fisherman and his wife-now were ever of one mind, bound to each other by their love, their sweetness of soul and understanding.

However, there came a day in early winter when the vines were withered and the sun was cold; so that the winds became powerful. And after the fisherman embarked on his boat they swept down from the hills across the lake. In one short hour the whole face of the waters was changed. It was as if many invisible husbandmen traversed that sea, beating it with flails, causing the foam to leap and hiss, the waves to spring angrily towards the heavens.

The fisherman's boat was ancient and had little holes in it through which the water flowed. Even so it laboured bravely while the women watched from the land. But there came a fierce wind from the mountain that, swooping like a hawk, pounced upon the hapless ship, thrusting it forward, driving its sails into the boisterous waves. Dark were the skies; black rain swept across the face of the sea, no eye could perceive the fishing vessels any more from the shore.

Swiftly dusk fell, night gathering thick and heavy upon the groaning earth. And the women assembled together, mourning, lamenting, praying for the men upon the sea now hidden from their sight. Neither moon nor stars lightened the dreary hours. No comfort came, no sign was given until at last the dawn peered wanly over the eastern hills, bearing to those stricken souls a little hope, a belief that, perhaps, their prayers were to be answered, and all would be saved.

Many were the thanksgivings when the wind fell with the risen day and fishermen came to shore. But they bore with them sorrowful tidings. The vessel of Zireeta's son had sunk beneath the waves in the dusk of the day that was past.

Stillness fell upon the waters as the sun climbed higher in the heavens; and when noon came, rest was wholly theirs. They sparkled as the starshine, as the glimmering dust which God walks upon as He traverses the wide heavens.

In this joyful hour when the world smiled once again, five men bore a heavy burden to the house in which dwelt Mary and her mother. Silently they bent their heads, passing into the small dim room beyond. And they laid the stricken body of the fisherman upon a linen sheet that was spread by the old woman upon the ground.

The mother of Mary was seized by a great quaking, which made the child fearful as she watched, and caused her to tremble, lament and bow her little head. But no one heeded the child; for the mother fell to the earth, lying heavy and still beside her husband.

They had loved as no man and woman in Galilee had ever loved before. One in spirit and in understanding, the Kingdom of Heaven was theirs while still they abode upon the earth. So now for the mother of Mary there was only darkness and a mighty despair.

These two, the fisherman and his beloved, were strong as the young trees of the forest. Yet, in one season, both were smitten. After her husband's going her spirit soon fled from the darkness of the body and the old woman prepared spices and the wrappings of the grave for her two children who had thus been snatched from her and from their sweet days of labour and content.

They were laid in a tomb shaped from the rock, a burial place that was open to the sky. Few were the mourners, and swiftly was their task accomplished, their burden laid to rest. They went about their trades and crafts once again. For them the chronicle of the fisherman and his wife was ended; but for the little one it still endured. After the burial she came to the old woman, hiding her face in the folds of her garments, praying her to call back the mother and father who had been taken away.

And the old woman sought to comfort Mary, saying that God was her Father and that she would be her mother. But for a space no kindness could stay or silence the lamentations of the child.

CHAPTER II

The house and little garden were sold. Zireeta and Mary journeyed to Nazareth where they dwelt in a herdsman's hut in the fields.

The Galileans were a kindly folk; and from time to time they bore gifts to Zireeta-a share of figs one clay, a small fish on another, a measure of wheat when harvest came and the reapers were abroad upon the slopes of the hills.

The fisherman had laid by in a napkin a small store of money, so though the old woman and the maid were poor there was sufficient for their needs. The pains of age increased, Zireeta could no longer walk abroad. And with each new sunrise the day seemed darker for her than the comrade it followed. When a bright noon pierced the huts and caves with its spears of light she fumbled and sought her way wearily and with hardship. For sight as well as power were passing, and there came a sunrise that for her was night.

She did not grieve because these other afflictions fell upon her. As in the prosperous days she gave thanks for the many blessings the Lord bestowed upon the household.

The maid, who stayed much with her, was tempted in an evil hour and cried out: "Wherefore should we render praise when all we love is reft from us, when thou art sightless and cannot even with heavy labour raise thyself and walk to the threshold of our dwelling?"

And Zireeta spoke gently to the child, declaring that there was a purpose in such affliction. From tribulation sprang joy and triumph. Had not the people of Israel suffered many things at the hands of the Egyptians? Had they not endured, receiving in a later season the promised land rich in wheat, milk and honey? Mary was quieted by these words and prayed the old woman to tell her more of the ancient days.

In the gloom of that small room, many tales were related to Mary of the mighty dead. Marvellous were the sayings of the blind woman to the maid, and it seemed at times that the shadows were moved about her, that David, the unarmed youth, stood before her with his sling, that the giant of the Philistines thrust his great shape from out the dimness, filling, that small dwelling, and falling before the stone of the thrower. Though she had never departed from Galilee, Mary could perceive as she hearkened, the Temple with the golden roof raised in such glory at Jerusalem. She learned of the battles fought with the Philistines and with the Babylonians, of the many sorrows of Israel, of the many captivities. One by one the prophets passed before her gaze-Isaiah, Jeremiah, Elias and many another strange men with flowing robes and noble countenances; and all spoke of that deliverer of Israel who would be born of a virgin.

The conquest of the Greeks, the later shame of the people of Judaea, was recounted in burning words by the ancient woman who rested with her head upon her hand in that small, bare chamber. In her youth she had hearkened to the village scribes, and so, for Mary, the chamber lost its emptiness and became a glory, a place of illumination and delight in which she spun her dreams.

Great was Israel's need, as the Romans now ruled in the place of the Greeks; and they sought ever to lead away and corrupt the faithful. They dishonoured and defiled the Holy City of Zion. Mary asked of the old woman out of what town or village would spring the deliverer, who would be chosen as the mother of the Messiah? Perhaps the prophets had declared her name and tribe? But Zireeta could not tell of the root from which he would spring. She knew not whether there were any tidings of him even now in these latter days at Jerusalem. And with such an answer Mary must needs be content.

Since her father's passing she had been fearful as a young faun in the forest. She would not seek out others of her generation, and did not speak with the older women when they came to the hut with a gift, or to pass the hours in talk with Zireeta. The heavy sorrow that had smitten the maid so harshly now no more caused her pain or led her to weep quietly in the corner of the hearth. For out of the old woman's tales she was building a noble vision, plucking at the heart of the years to come, dowering them with a son who would be the conqueror of the Romans, the Redeemer of her own people.

One day she asked Zireeta if God would grant her desire when it was not for herself but for the people of Judeo.

The old woman answered: "If thou dost pray daily for it and kept thyself pure and apart from others, peradventure God will grant thy request. The prophets went alone into the wilderness when they sought some special grace. Do thou withdraw thyself into thy corner by the hearth and pray for our people. Truly, as my neighbour sayeth, they have need of it."

Now Mary would not declare her dream even to Zireeta; for it would seem soiled when laid before the understanding of another. Only in the hours when she wandered in the fields did she pray aloud, declaring her desire to God.

The neighbours spoke to the old woman: "Mary is no more a child. Let her seek the company of our daughters and learn to be as others, for it is not well that she should always abide apart and in dimness."

So Zireeta bade Mary go forth and not stay with her through all the hours, for she was content and would have tidings of the village and the people. These Mary might bear her if she came and went.

And Mary was glad to be thus free. Winter had passed, spring decked the hills with many coloured blossoms. Vines cast forth their young shoots, the trees were being appareled in green garments; and the earth and birds were stirring in all places, the great heart of life beating swiftly everywhere. Mary went gaily forth each clay after she had attended upon the old woman. Yet she did not seek the company of the neighbours, but climbed the hills, staying nowhere until she was wholly alone. Then, when no eye gazed upon her, she sought the shade of some tree, kneeling and praying beneath it for the great yearning of her soul, for that heart's desire first set within her by the words of her father.

Many times she watched the sun rising, the cool dusk of morning passing, the birds wheeling in the light. And gladness ever possessed her spirit; for she now came to believe that she was chosen, that she would, in due season, be the mother of the Messiah.

In that wondrous springtime this dream was woven out of sunshine and of flowers. In the blue water of Galilee it was imaged. From the snow crowned mountains in the north, from the smiling coasts came belief, hope and a sureness that would not be denied. If God could shape such an earth He could assuredly grant Mary's dream. All things for Him were possible. So she believed, and so she continued to grow in such belief. Therefore, men and women, youths and maidens were to her but as shadows. They played no part in her life, a life that awoke for her each day clear and marvellous when she walked upon the hills, communing with her God, resting at times, at times plucking flowers, and then returning again to prayer and dream.

CHAPTER III

In time it came to be known that Mary passed much of the day among the groves or on the lonely hills. And certain goodwives from the town chided Zireeta, saying: "Harm Will come to the maid if she thus holdeth herself apart and goeth into the country round about, seeking the solitudes. Truly, it is not wise or seemly. Let her come to our dwellings so that she may learn to work with our daughters and be as others of her generation."

The old woman was troubled by their words and spoke hardly to Mary, bidding her seek out the neighbours' daughters in the coming days and labour and play with them, hearing from their elders what every virgin should learn before she is taken to wife and knows a man.

However, Mary wept, and Zireeta was dismayed by her strange trouble, taking her in her arms, praying for enlightenment concerning this grief.

And the maid said: "I seek God in the hills and in the lonely places.

'Does thou find Him?"

"Yea, I have found the Ineffable One," she whispered. "But only at times, twice or thrice, have I, through long praying in the fields, come to know of His Presence and to feel a glory about me which hath filled my heart with joy. And I know I am being tried and tested. I know that if I hold fast, if I remain true, seeking as did the prophets, my Lord in the lonely places, then shall I be deemed worthy and peradventure chosen to bear a Son who will redeem Israel."

At these words the old woman cried out and then fell into a silence while day stole into evening, while birds, beasts and children ceased their crying, seeking sleep. The night was still, no voice calling, no step causing the stones without to murmur and mutter when at last she who was blind perceived with a greater clearness than her neighbours, than any Galilean. "Peradventure, little daughter," she said, "thou wilt be chosen. Thou speakest from thy heart, and it may be that the angel of the Lord will appear unto thee if thou doest continue in this high purpose. Tell no one of it, but go thy ways as before and heed not the talk of the neighbours."

So Mary did not change the ordering of her days. When she encountered the goodwives in the winding streets they bade her to their houses, but she would not enter, breaking from them. Then they were angered, reproaching the old woman who would not command the comings in and goings out of the maid. Nay more, they spoke evil of her vigils upon the hills; and the children hearkened, and in their turn, spoke evil, designing to make a mock and show of one of their generation who walked apart from them.

"She is scornful and proud," they declared, as they watched her passing up the winding street.

"Let us mike sport of her," cried a maid whose age was greater than Mary's by more than two summers.

"Yea, we will humble her and cause her to bow her head," cried another.

Whereupon the children and the young women followed her, calling out base sayings, casting dust and mud at the maid. She turned herself about, gazing down upon these Galileans from the slope on which she stood, uttering no word, wonder and fear upon her countenance.

Then they were the more emboldened because she seemed afraid, and they might have dealt hardly with her if their cries had not been silenced by the voice of a youth.

A young carpenter named Joseph came between these tormentors and their prey, commanding their silence, saying: "Ye disgrace our town. Behold the maid who hath neither father nor mother and hurteth no living soul. But ye do make a mock and a shame of her because she walketh alone, because she is holy."

"Holy?" cried one.

"Yea, holy," declared Joseph. "My sister hath watched Mary when she is alone in the fields; and she hath told me that this maid maketh long prayers and is truly an example to us all, seeking to serve the Holy Name, and, in her way to fulfill His will. For, verily, I believe she hath been set apart for some high purpose."

Then these women and children were abashed and cast about, and they withdrew muttering, scolding and whispering; for they feared the young carpenter, and his words caused them to be ashamed.

The sister of Joseph alone had learned Mary's secret dream, and she had imparted it to her brother. When in his sister's company, he sought to speak with the maid; and she was ashamed and scarce would utter any words. Fearing to destroy her peace, Joseph sought no more to converse with her, but watched her when she walked abroad alone.

Though still talk was made the neighbours did not again trouble Mary. And indeed the time of her sojourn in Nazareth was now only for a short season.

One day, when Mary had been early abroad, she returned to a dwelling that seemed empty though Zireeta sat beside the fire. As the maid traversed the threshold some stranger passed her by. Such in truth was her belief, yet she saw no one. And fear gathered heavily in that dim chamber, joy fleeing as life had fled.

Mary went to the old woman, touching her closed eyes, her feet and hands, and in that instant knew that she was dead.

CHAPTER IV

The store of money had been spent. It was time for Zireeta to pass from the weary life of the flesh. But now Mary had no friends among the neighbours. Only the youth Joseph and his sister showed kindliness, speaking words of comfort, succouring her in this lonely hour. They were poor, but they sought out her kin. And in the week that followed the death of Zireeta, a grey bearded man, one named Chiraeus passed through Nazareth. He was a cousin of the dead woman and declared to Mary that he was prepared to take her into his service. His wife was old and had no children. They kept an inn on the road to Jerusalem, and it was needful that they should have some handmaid who would share in the labour of the household.

Then Mary bade farewell to the hills she so dearly loved, and to the two friends who had not, as the others, withdrawn from her in her hour of sorrow.

The inn, which now was home for Mary, was set in a valley and stood alone near to the road along which travelers, merchants and pilgrims journey when they go to Jerusalem. In certain seasons few passed by that way; but at the time of the great feasts the inn was crowded, and Mary laboured early and late, sleeping in such times in the stable near her cousin's abode. She served the guests and swept the house. And her hearing was greeted by the sounds of diverse tongues, by tales of other lands and of strange hazardous ventures. All these she wove into the texture of her dreams.

Often the house was empty but for Chiraeus and the housewife. Only at times in the evenings did the shepherds gather within it from the hills. And Mary served these rude, heavy men and delighted to hearken to their speech concerning sheep and shearing, battles fought by them and by their dogs with the wolves; tales of pestilence that scourged the flocks, tales of robbers.

All these she harvested within her mind. Only from among them did she pluck one tale-as a harper plucks at one string-the chronicle of a prophet and a king who would be born of the Royal House of David and who would deliver Israel from the invader.

"Lo, in the night time, when the bitter wind scourged the hills and I had folded my flock," declared one young shepherd, "there came a change in the skies, blackness fled, and we who were huddled about the fire of roots, trembled and were troubled in soul, yet glad, and we knew not the cause of our gladness. We questioned one another, saying: 'Behold, this is but the first hour of the night and already dawn apparelleth the hills with light. Hath God changed the hours? Doth He summon the sun out of the east in winter time, at the darkest hour, when it would seem that night alone is monarch and ruler of the world?'

"No man could answer such questions; all withdrew into silence, huddling closer over the fire, not seeking sleep, watching and scarce breathing as the light withdrew from the borders of those hills, yet did not fade, increasing in brilliance and in beauty. Soon it spread about a shape; and that shape stood over against the darkness behind the dying fire.

"Fear fell upon us all. For we are simple men of the hills and have little understanding of the marvels of the earth. But truly this was no earthly marvel. For, in a short space, a voice came from out that shape of light, that starry being who would seem to have cleft the skies and dropped down within our midst upon the earth.

"'I am the Angel of God,' declared this Shining One; 'and I bear tidings of joy to Israel. Behold, a woman hath been chosen from among the people of the Lord, and it is written that she shall bear a child who, when he is grown, shall rule over all men, holding 'neath his sway Romans, Greeks and Gentiles; and they shall bow the knee to Israel.'

"So marvellous was this speech, so peaceful the mien of this Being who came from out the fiery heights of Heaven, we were emboldened, and bowing ourselves down we shepherds spake with one voice, entreating the angel to guide us to the virgin who was to bear the deliverer of Israel. And behold, even as we cried the light faded, the angel vanished. We were alone with the darkness and the bitter wind; and even our small fire was quenched.

"Since that night we have watched again and yet again for the angel, but it cometh not; and we are heavy of heart. For we would find the mother of the deliverer of Israel."

However, the innkeeper could give them no counsel in such a matter. He but pressed more of the thin wine of the land upon them. And after a short space the shepherds departed, seeking their flocks upon the hills.

And Mary gathered within her understanding this tale of the angel, also weaving it into her dream. Nightly was that dream shaped in a prayer that she spoke when she was at last alone and might declare her desire to God.

CHAPTER V

Now the inn was set in a barren place, no great journey from Jerusalem. Truly the face of that region seemed as the countenance of some old bald head which is scored and wrinkled, scourged by the furies of life and time. Only in spring did any green things show themselves, and that but sparsely. Soon the grasses drooped and died. With summer these rocky valleys and clifted hills were stripped of plant and flower, and the eyes of men were greeted only with the bare and pitiless stones that burned the feet with the coming of the noonday sun.

Mary might well have pined and drooped when compelled to five in the midst of such harshness; and at times her spirit yearned for the vine clad slopes of Galilee, for the rich blossom of that land, for the peace of the deep blue waters of the lake. Yet she was content because her dream grew and increased in loveliness.

In the season of harvest the innkeeper made great preparation and caused his housewife and handmaid to scour the house; for he deemed that many pilgrims would soon pass by that way, journeying to Jerusalem for the Feast of the Tabernacles.

It was a year when the hearts and minds of many Jews were turned towards the Holy City of Zion. So the belief of the innkeeper was fulfilled. Travelers passed by that way in great numbers; and Mary and the housewife served them, labouring early and late. Among them were certain Jews who had come from a far land that lay beyond the Euphrates.

They smiled upon Mary and desired that she should serve them. They were not as other pilgrims, but wore costly robes. So their host sought to do the strangers honour, and the maid bore meat and wine in haste, setting them before each grey beard.

And as they ate their fill they spoke with one another, saying: "Peradventure, we shall see Herod, the king, at Jerusalem, and he may lighten the darkness of our ignorance."

Whereupon the innkeeper inquired of them as to their purpose in this pilgrimage, and as to the knowledge they sought to acquire from a ruler who was not held in any great esteem by the faithful.

One white bearded sage said: "We have learned that the hour of the birth of the Messiah is at hand. We have seen the star that heraldeth His coming and we would find Him out and pay Him homage."

"And where shall he be found?" asked the innkeeper.

"The prophet hath declared that Bethlehem is chosen as His birthplace. 'Thou, Bethlehem, art not the least among the cities of Judaea.' So it hath been written. 'Wherefore, we would seek Him there."

"Nay, not in Bethlehem," spoke another bearded stranger. "Masters, ye are wise men. Wherefore should the King of Israel thus be born in a small city, without the knowledge of the people?"

And a third said: "His birthplace shall be unknown. Nay more, His father and His mother, peradventure, shall not be known."

"But His father shall be of the seed of David," cried another.

Whereupon these wise men fell at strife, contending in fierce words concerning the coming of the King. The whitebearded sage wearied of their clacking tongues and drew apart from them, softly calling the maid. "Wisdom is ofttimes declared by the babe or the innocent," he said. "Tell me, dost thou believe that the Messiah is soon to be born in this land?"

And Mary made bold answer: "Yea, master, inasmuch as the angel of the Lord hath appeared unto the shepherds of these hills and hath told them of the coming of the King.

The old man was stirred by this tale, and questioned the maid further concerning it and he was amazed by her knowledge of the prophecies that foretold of the birth of the deliverer. Before he had made an end of words he told Mary that when he discovered this Son of the Highest he would bring gold and precious stones, and would come and worship beside His cradle.

"But if he were born in some lowly habitation?" questioned a greybeard.

I would worship my Lord and King if He lay beneath the stars and had no covering to His head. I would worship Him if He lay in a shepherd's hut. For truly no man knoweth the greatness of the morrow. The son of the shepherd may be chosen to sit in the high places. All hath changed. Who can tell whether the lowliest shall not rise to be the first among the people. Verily it hath been declared that the first shall be last and the last first.

This and other sayings uttered by the sage Mary gathered within her heart.

That night as she lay upon the straw in the stable her thoughts did not journey back to the green hills of Galilee, they journeyed forward, imaging as she fell asleep her dream-Mary, the mother of the King.

CHAPTER VI

Winter passed like a somber bird of prey through that valley. Old men and women who dwelt among the hills were stricken by the hardship of untoward cold. Even Mary, the joyful maid, was sad at heart for a brief while, and she yearned for the gentle breezes of Galilee, for the soft airs of the lake, the kindly mists that rose from its waters while snow laid white turbans upon the mountains and winds hissed and screamed their bitterness through the hills.

Spring came at last, quiet and timid as the young deer of the woods, each day creeping nearer to the men and women who lived in the heights and about the valley where Mary dwelt. Even its rocky sides were gladdened by green blades of grass springing here and there, thrusting themselves between the stones. Small bushes put on their caps of green, and the sun smiled upon them all.

It seemed that, with the coming of the new season, the soul of Mary awoke also and each hour drew nearer to God. In those days there were few guests at the inn, and she might walk abroad and seek the lonely places as was her custom in Galilee in past times. So her dream grew, and now she knew it to wholly true. Forasmuch as one night when she laid herself down to rest the angel of the Lord appeared to her, declaring His will. The maid was neither fearful nor astonished, as she told Mary the sister of Joseph in a later time. "I knew that Gabriel would come, I had prayed so much, desired for so long that he should give me greeting, bearing the blessings of the Highest to me; so that I was in no way afraid."

And the angel spoke, saying: "Thou are highly favored, Mary, and art blessed among all women. For thou has been chosen to bear a Son, and He shall be called Jesus. And He is the redeemer, the deliverer of men. He shall be called the Son the Highest, and shall be of the House of David and reign for ever in the place of Jacob over the chosen people of the Lord.."

The night was still; there was no noise, no sound of steps upon the stones as the angel withdrew, passing through the door, fading thus from the sight of the kneeling maid. Then great was her joy and many the words of her thanksgiving. She could neither fear nor doubt any more. She had not prayed, dreamed, desired in vain. She was chosen from among all women.

Now on the day that followed the visitation of Gabriel, a young man and a girl come down the narrow winding way that leads through the ravines and rocks into that lone habitation of man. Perceiving a mule and travelers from afar, the innkeeper bade Mary prepare food. She was making bread and Joseph the young carpenter entered the house and greeted her. Behind him was his sister Mary, who hastened towards the maid, kissing her upon each cheek, laying her arms about her, speaking of the love between them and the joy of such a meeting.

Food and drink were set before the travelers. Then, when they had eaten Joseph went forth to give water and grass to the mule. And the two Marys wandered down the path through the valley, opening their hearts to one another.

"I am to marry Clopas, the trader," said Joseph's sister. He hath bought me these several seasons, and at last, I have yielded and will be his wife."

After they had talked awhile of this matter Mary spoke of the angel of the Lord and of his visit to the stable in the night that was past. Her friend was greatly uplifted when she learned of the promise of a Son, Jesus, who would be the Redeemer of Israel. Then all of a sudden silence fell between them, and the countenance of the elder of the two maids was changed. "How may this be?" she said; "Thou knowest no sage, no great man who reigneth in high places, and if a son is born to thee this is needful."

And Mary answered: "I cannot tell how this thing shall come to pass. But as surely as the sun will rise on the morrow, as surely shall this Son be born to me."

Then Joseph came down the path, and the two women spoke no more of this matter. After a time the carpenter's sister declared that she was weary, and that she must rest by the way. So the two, her brother and Mary, wandered forward in the sunset light. And Mary plucked a flower here, a flower there, and gave them to Joseph and sang joyfully while the shadows fell across the hills, making light and dimness in her road.

Joseph asked her if she sorrowed for Galilee, for its hills and coasts.

"Nay, I grieve not for them because I am chosen, because the angel of the Lord hath visited me. So all my days are joyful, my nights sweet with repose; and no labour is hard to me, no hardship giveth me pain. Is not my Lord with me daily though I do not perceive Him. Is not peace therefore wholly mine?"

Joseph learned that Mary had spoken with Gabriel. But she did not relate the words of his message. This she would hide from all save her loved sister who knew the secrets of her soul.

In a little while when day was done and the sun had sunk behind the cliff, Joseph spoke of his desire to take Mary back with him to Nazareth and to make her his wife.

Then she was troubled; the flowers fell from her hands, strewing the path; she went forward in silence, crushing them and their fragrance beneath her feet.

Again Joscph spoke, praying and entreating her to hearken to him, declaring his love and his will to keep her from all trouble and hardship. "Here thou toilest early and late. Thy cousin is a hard man; he speaketh to thee with heat and cruelty. Thy life is full of labour and has little joy in such a harsh and lonely place. Come back to the hills of Galilee. Return to the lake which is dear to thee; and I will guard and keep thee from all toll and evil, and thou shalt be my wife. The neighbours in Galilee still speak strangely of thee and their words anger me. But now if thou wilt be my wife there shall be no more reproaches. Soon my sister will leave me and will dwell with Clopas. Then shall I be alone."

And suddenly Mary wept and declared that this could not be. She hastened away from the young carpenter, running down the darkening valley, not stopping or staying until she lay upon the straw of the stable, still weeping, breathing heavily and fearfully. There was the maid found by his sister who kissed her and comforted her.

CHAPTER VII

All the heavens shone with the jeweled raiment of God. Night bore a blue mantle it cast about the earth; and its peace bore peace to men. Streams from the winter rains splashed and murmured among the rocks and their whisper sighed through the hours of sleep; while the starry lights of the robe of God rejoiced and delighted one sorrowful watcher.

Mary had bidden farewell to the travelers. She was alone once more and heaviness deserted her as she gazed up into the skies. Even when the hour for rest was come and she lay within the stable she could still perceive those heavens, could gaze at them through the broken roof. And it seemed to her mind that be jewels set in them became alive, that the stars were joyful beings that danced and sang. Then for a little while she slept; and when she woke again she thought that the skies had changed. One great star shone down upon her; and she thrust out her arms, seeking to cry to it a greeting. But her mouth could not shape the joyful words, yet she knew in her heart it was the star in the east of which the whitebearded sage had spoken.

And that dark stable was illumined as by some light from within; and one by one the wise men passed in procession, bearing with them goblets of gold, precious spices and perfumed myrrh. They paid no heed to the lonely watcher but halted before the manger, kneeling and bowing their heads, holding up their offerings, then laying them upon the earth beneath it.

Mary spoke no word, yet she knew in that hour that her son lay there.

Softly as the breath of a night breeze upon the waters of Galilee came the whisper of Gabriel's word: "The Song of the Highest, the Redeemer, the Deliverer. He shall sit on the throne of Jacob for ever."

CHAPTER VIII

No sun shone on the day that followed this night of vigil but the earth did not frown. All things rejoiced, the flowers giving forth unwonted sweetness; the stream that soon would be dry sounding its little lay; one lone bird softly singing in that wilderness.

Mary bore the clothes of the household to the waterside; and as she washed them in the clear, cold stream she hearkened to the speech of the land about her. Even the grasses and the little misshapen trees seemed to tell their tale of quiet delight to the silent hour. For the life of spring stirred in all things on that gracious day.

Above Mary stretched the wide sky covered with clouds like the white and grey feathers upon the breast of a bird. Only a gentle light reached down from God to the maid in those swiftly passing moments, in that day when she was glad as never before.

All had been accomplished. She knew now that she had but to wait in patience for the coming of the king. She had learned in the night that was over that she was worthy. She had seen the image of the years to come. The seed of the Spirit was sown on virgin soil. It would increase, and in due course, the soul of the deliverer would stir within a man before whom all the peoples of the earth bowed their heads; one who crowned Israel with life, and gave salvation to all who desired it.

No winds blew that day in those highlands; no step of the stranger sounded through the valley. The innkeeper had set out on a journey. The housewife slumbered within the dwelling. All the hours of noon and early night Mary was alone with her labour and her dream-the Spirit of another which she had conceived within her spirit. No fear was hers; the Son of God rested and slept within her soul, and joy, as has not been known since on earth, filled her whole being in full measure. So that at times she must rest to whisper her gladness and her thanks, declaring it to her Lord who was companion and beloved through all the lone hours of that holy day.

When dusk dimmed the valley the clouds opened a little in the west, and a crown of gold hung above the earth, one that cast its rays upon the hills seeming to give them glory ere it passed, fading out among the gathering shadows of night.

The linen had dried upon the rocks. Mary now laid it in her basket, and then halted, her hands idle at last. She gazed down the slope, feeling the warm spring breath upon her cheek, swiftly rustling by, departing with the vanishing day. She knelt and gave thanks yet again for those perfect hours which would never return, which bore to her a sweetness ineffable, a glory that has never died.

In that lonely time, when no living man or woman was near to her, she conceived within her spirit the One pure Spirit; and this is a mystery which cannot be declared, which may be known by children and the simple of heart yet denied to men of wisdom and those who have no understanding.

Night folded the valley within its embrace. Mary entered the inn, laid down the linen and roused the housewife from her slumber. Then she prepared the supper for Chiraeus, and having partaken of bread and of goats' milk, set a candle in the window that would guide the returning traveler, and withdrew for the night to the stable, where she slept deeply and heavily, putting off from her remembrance joy, sorrow, hope and fear, gladness and the hardship of toiling hours.

CHAPTER IX

In the hilly country of Judaea there is little shelter from burning summer suns; and when spring was passed labour became a weariness, and the hours of noon bore heaviness and pain with them for those who laboured and might not rest.

The housewife sickened and died. So the tasks set upon Mary multiplied. She had the whole care of the inn and must serve the innkeeper as well as passing travelers. He was old and fretful and spoke hard words to her, his tongue scarcely ever silent between sunrise and sundown. The maid did not dream any more; for she could not escape from the scolding speech of this ancient, who would follow her to and fro with his bawling voice, crying out to her if she halted even for an instant in her labours.

Those months stretched away with the length of years. They set hollows in the cheeks of this handmaid who had seen but seventeen summers. Her bones showed where there should have been flesh, and her eyes were oft times heavy with weeping.

It was not the hardships, that might well have been the portion of the galley slave, which caused such tears. She mourned because her dream had been snatched away from her and continual weariness bowed down her slender body. She could not feel the presence of God any more. No time was there for converse with the Invisible One in the quiet places. She was scarcely ever alone or free from toil. When at night she stumbled to the stable door her body fell upon the straw; and so ravaged was it by those long hours of serving she could not be wakeful and even for an hour seek her Lord in the only solitude that was hers. At daybreak she would start to her feet fearing the blows of the innkeeper if she tarried, seeking further rest. And again through all the hours of another day she was driven from one task to another.

As autumn drew near, her strength drew near to its end. Strange fears beset her soul. When evening was passing into night it seemed that demons came and went, passing up and down that valley. They whispered in her ear and told her that they were servants of Chiraeus come to watch her even as she lay alone in the stable. So her sleep was no longer peaceful and untroubled. She would wake, crying out, for it seemed that the demons were about her, scourging her with rods; and even the power to pray failed her in that direful season. She could shape no words; for God had forgotten. Such was her fear. He was away somewhere behind the blue heavens, and hearkened no more to His child.

There came an evening when certain travelers, who were journeying to Galilee, halted at the inn, and among them was a woman named Miriam. She was one of those neighbours who had derided Mary when she walked the hills, and had uttered base sayings.

In her haste to serve these people the maid broke a pitcher, and the innkeeper cursed her, calling her by many evil names. Then Miriam fastened her gaze upon the stricken handmaid, and knowing her once again, cried out: "This is Mary, the daughter of the fisherman, a maid of ill repute in Nazareth. Thou declarest only what is true in such names upon her. We would not suffer our daughters to hold speech with this child of Satan. She is, we believe, accursed. Put her from your dwelling and you will be well served."

Now Miriam desired to marry her daughter [to] Joseph. She knew that he cared only for Mary, therefore she uttered this scandal concerning the outcast. And Mary shrank away, moaning and lamenting as if she had been smitten with a sharp spear.

Miriam's husband had paid the innkeeper well. So he was prepared to believe her story. Seeking to please the woman he took up a rod and thrust Mary from the house, striking her many times, so that she fell upon the stones in a swoon.

He did not heed her but returned to the inn and to the company of these folk who had other tales to tell of happenings in Galilee.

The cold of the night roused the maid at last; and she rose in great pain, creeping and stumbling to the stable. There she lay in a fever when the sun rose on another day. And the innkeeper was sorry when he perceived his handiwork; inasmuch as she could not serve him while the sickness was upon her, while the wounds were open and unhealed.

A week went by before she could rise again from the straw, before the fever was passed. Now a great fear was hers. She had not the strength to serve Chiraeus; she believed he would cast her forth and she must die in the wilderness, for his mind was closed to pity or compassion.

She feigned weakness, lying moaning upon the straw. And when he bore her bread and water in the evening he spoke of his purpose: "If thou dost not arise on the morrow I will cast thee into the wilderness, and thou shalt be carrion before another sun doth set. I will not be charged with the burden of feeding and keeping a woman of evil repute, whose name is a reproach in Galilee."

When the innkeeper had departed Mary rose up, and at last, in her need, her tongue was loosed and she could pray to God. Out of her desolation did she cry, entreating that He would send His Angel of Death and speedily deliver her from wicked tongues and from her woeful misery. She could not face the anguish of the wilderness, an outcast and a wanderer, to be devoured by jackals or by wolves.

Fearful were her cries as she thought of the menaces of Chiraeus. And even as she lamented, a voice called: "Mary, Mary." So gentle was its sound she deemed that she hearkened to the Angel of Death, that he had come swiftly in answer to her prayer, and soon would be her deliverance.

She dared no[t] raise her head, for in this very hour, that perhaps bore freedom with it, she called to mind her dream; and a bitterness more terrible than any death possessed the dreamer. She had not been found worthy. Therefore she was rejected and would not be the mother of the Messiah.

Now the voice was whispering in her ear and lips were pressed upon her cheek. She opened her eyes; all fear of death, night, and lonely failure fled from her as she perceived not an angel but the face of Joseph, the young carpenter.

He would not have her abide for another hour in that valley wherein she had been so close to death and had tasted of the bitterness of Hell. He told the innkeeper that Mary was his espoused wife, and that he was setting out forthwith to Nazareth. The two men spoke hard words to one another, Chiraeus declaring the scandal that had been spoken by Miriam, and seeking with other base sayings to anger the carpenter and to justify his cruelty. For the marks of the rod still showed upon the body of the maid, and she was shrunken as an old woman in her limbs by reason of her many hardships and the small measure of food given to her in the past season.

However, perceiving the white hairs of the innkeeper Joseph did not, as he was at first minded, strike this tyrant to the earth. "Verily he is possessed by an evil spirit. I will leave him to be devoured by it in this loneliness," said the carpenter. "There can be no greater punishment."

And in the winter that followed these words were fulfilled. The innkeeper became the prey of evil spirits and perished miserably.

CHAPTER X

Now as he journeyed through the night Joseph perceived that Mary drooped and pined; and fearing lest she would fall into a swoon and pass hence, lie cast about, searching the hills, not following the road.

In a little while he came upon several shepherds who were gathered about a fire and were partaking of their evening meal. These he greeted, and on learning his story, they made him welcome.

"Chiraeus hath been possessed by a devil this long while past," said one. I saw him strike this maid, but feared to cry out upon him, for he is rich and is the friend of my master who possesseth many flocks."

"Mary is innocent, and we believe that she is holy," said another shepherd lad.

"She hath been set apart for a high purpose," declared a third.

And before she fell asleep these words entered Mary's weary understanding, bearing to her that vanished joy which had given sweetness and delight to all her youthful days.

At times through the night she was roused by the pains in her body. But she opened her eyes to the Stars and they seemed no more far off and strangers, again they were bright beings of light, or again, they were shining jewels sewn upon the robe of God. And then she would slumber, not stirring till the sun had risen and the shepherds were abroad, calling to the dogs, loosing their sheep from the fold.

CHAPTER XI

The face of the land about Nazareth had changed. Trees and plants all were turned to colours of red, silver and gold. The autumn breath, pure and cool, wandered over all those coasts, even over the desert that adjoins and over Tiberias, the Roman city of high buildings and of white towers.

For the first time for many months the light stole into Mary's eyes. Her body trembled with delight as she gazed down from the hill and from the mule on which she was being borne, and perceived all that region she had known and loved so well.

She was coming home, returning to the place which had given her her celestial dream, which would in due season, she believed, render that living testimony that she had walked with God.

Slowly the mules descended passing from the highlands and the last lights of day into the shades of evening. And when that first smooth flowing darkness had passed them by, the soft light of starshine and of moon fire made the way clear for these tired travelers. The power of speech was reft from them by their joy; and as they gazed across the silver sea of Galilee and perceived the dim shapes of fishing ships and drooping sails, they joined hands, making their covenant for all the future time, whispering their vows the one to the other.

It is true that Joseph had not sought out Mary after the fashion of the Jews. They always desired observances and various seemly rites. But the young folk gave no thought to the morrow, nor to the talk of men and women. Joseph delivered his weary charge into the arms of his sister Mary, now wife of Clopas. She set food before her and then caused her to rest after her bruises had been bathed and ointments had assuaged their pain.

But early in the day that followed, Miriam knocked upon the door of the dwelling and thrust herself within when Joseph opened it. Her countenance was dark with malice and uncharitableness; and when she perceived the two Marys, she signed to Joseph to follow her so that she could speak with him alone.

In the garden without the dwelling she declared her mind, uttering many falsehoods. "This Mary, daughter of the fisherman, since his death, hath lived wildly and barbarously. Thou knowest how she walked alone upon the hills of Galilee. It was for an evil purpose she thus wandered to and fro. And even when she dwelt with her cousin the innkeeper she lived after the same manner. So I learned from him. If thou seekest to cure her of the evil in her heart verily thou wilt fail. Wherefore, be not foolish and make her thy wife. She is truly a woman of evil repute. Put her away privily while there is yet time."

Terrible was the anger of Joseph at these words; and he could scarcely hold back from striking Miriam. But for Mary's sake he contained himself, bidding this scandalmonger be gone, crying out: "This maid is pure and holy as the dawn. She spake with God and walked with God when she was alone upon the hills. Thou art the vilest among women because thou hast sought to decry innocence and to smirch the pure loveliness of this child. Begone, I tell thee, before I shame myself by laying violent hands upon thee and thy grey hairs. Begone, else thou wilt suffer for the wrong thou doest to the maid who is to be my wife."

Miriam made no answer but went hastily down the path and when she had reached her home she hatched evil thoughts in her mind saying that Joseph had desired to take Mary to wife, but now was minded to put her away prissily. That the maid had sinned and was so corrupt not one among them should hold speech with her.

So there was no welcome for Mary in Galilee. The neighbours drew back their skirts from her and whispered and peered as she passed down the road. Some of their words were spoken in her hearing and their vileness was such she bad no understanding of their wickedness. For she was simple and innocent of mind as a little child.

And the brows of Joseph were black with wrath because he could not suffer to have the name of his beloved thus sullied, and bear with it in silence. He took counsel with his sister concerning those women, gross in mind and body, who were as the pestilence that destroys. And the wife of Clopas said: "No blast shall wither up this love of thine. I will instruct Mary in this matter, and once she is armed against these folk she will be safe from the malice of their tongues."

Before she departed from Galilee with her husband she talked much with the maid, discovering to her innocent soul the sorry things of life and declaring also those joys that were hidden from her mind.

CHAPTER XII

After their marriage Joseph and his wife departed from Nazareth to a place where they were not known. And Mary brought forth a son in great fear yet in gladness also. In that times [s]he was near to death, but again, as at the inn, death held back; and each day Mary increased in strength and could speak with Joseph who promised that her son should be called Jesus. This was the name that Gabriel had declared to Mary before ever the child lay in her womb.

She was troubled and perplexed in mind while her purification was being accomplished. Joseph spoke little to her, and there was sombreness in his manner, darkness in his eye. They might not for a space return to Nazareth because of the scandal that would be spoken by the goodwives of the town. So, as both husband and wife were doubtful of heart, each one fearing to cleave the silence, to declare their mind concerning the babe who had been born among strangers, they determined to follow the counsel of the scribe who bade them go up to Jerusalem, where the child might be presented to the Lord, and perhaps He would reveal His purpose concerning them.

Mary rejoiced when she gazed upon the Holy City of Zion and perceived the mighty Temple with its shining roof glimmering in the sun; and she marvelled at the greatness of its girth at the multitude that thronged the courts. Sweet to her hearing was the chanting of the priests, noble the call of the trumpet when it sounded from the threshold of that Temple. It was as if it called to the babe who lay close to her bosom, who stirred and. then slumbered again.

Unrest and vexation no more distressed the young wife's soul. She waited in faith, sure that a sign would soon be shown, that the darkness that lay heavy between her and Joseph would be removed. And as they were departing from the Temple after having made the offering of turtle doves, they encountered a priest who had in an earlier hour held speech with them. His name was Simeon and he was an upright man. Now his face shone with the light of the Spirit and he drew the carpenter and his wife away from the crowding people.

In a small and quiet corner of the great Temple this ancient, of a sudden, broke forth into beautiful speech, praising God. Joseph and Mary knelt down, marvelling at this psalm of thanksgiving, at the noble mien of the singer. Soon they discerned that he spoke of the babe who lay in Mary's arms, that lie hailed Him as the Messiah, as the Redeemer who would be a glory to Israel. Doubt departed, shame and perplexity fled away like birds of the night. Joseph was no more cast down, fearing the evil reproaches of his neighbours in Galilee. He turned his face to Mary and smiled, and perceiving that smile, she knew that all was well between them, that the darkness had lifted.

Marvel was heaped on marvel. For when Simeon had taken the child from His Mother, blessing Him, an aged woman named Anna came into that quiet place. She swiftly lifted up her voice, hailing the Babe also as the Messiah, thanking God for His coming.

"This child is set for the rising and falling of many in Israel," said the priest. "And behold, a sharp sword shall pierce His Mother's heart because of Him.'

When he had said these words Joseph drew him apart and declared his perplexities in his ear. He told of the scandal uttered by the neighbours and of all those dark sayings that might again be spoken if they came forth boldly and recounted the tale of Gabriel's promise to Mary, if they claimed that Jesus was the Messiah according to the words of the angels.

Then Simeon gave them wise counsel. "Tell no man of these things, speak not of them even to this child when he reacheth the years of understanding. Live in all quietness and watch the boy in his growth. See that he followeth the bidding of his own heart. For ye know not in what mariner, or in what hour, he will be called, so that he may deliver not only Israel, but the Gentiles also, and be the salvation of men."

Thanking the priest for his words of counsel, Joseph and Mary departed from the Temple. They were poor, and soon were compelled to journey back to Nazareth. Only in this town was there work for Joseph. Now that his little store of money was spent he must give over his days to labour so that the mother and the child should be fed.

A great gladness filled the soul of Mary as she bade farewell to Jerusalem. Soon it passed from sight and they journeyed among the barren bills and traversed the dried and withered valleys. But these sombre regions cast no shadow upon her dream.

Once again in Nazareth Joseph and Mary kept to themselves. Mary would not gossip with the women, fearing their curious minds and their questioning speech if they looked upon the babe, holding him in their arms. She did not seek the solitude of the hills. Only now and then on a day when Joseph was not working at home and many of the neighbours were away at the festival, she stole forth into the fields and by the brook of the willows above Nazareth she rested, and there hearkened to the plaint of the breezes in the leaves and to the murmur of the waters.

Such hours gave her courage for this new life which had its times of hardship inasmuch as Joseph found but little work because of the talk that was soon made by the people.

Always he was gentle to his wife, cherishing her, but he commanded that she should keep silence concerning the revelation which had been vouchsafed by the angel and by Simeon. "These are hard and perilous times," he declared. "Let us hold our peace until the reproach hath been lifted from us, and we be as others and come to find our friends in Nazareth."

Mary obeyed him, guarding within her mind those thoughts that concerned her son Jesus and that future time when he would be known to Israel. But despite her quiet life evil was spoken; and one day as she walked abroad carrying the babe in her arms women followed her, making of her a mock and a derision. She fled from them to the hut in which Joseph dwelt, and there she lay for a long while trembling and weeping because of this blast of fury and hate of which her innocent soul could have no understanding.

After that time she spoke no more to Joseph of the Redeemer and Deliverer, nor did she even suffer the thought of Him to abide within her spirit.

CHAPTER XIII

After the passing of sixteen seasons Mary Clopas returned to Galilee. She had no tidings in all that time of her brother, the carpenter, and as she journeyed to Nazareth she pondered much, asking herself whether Mary would be as she had left her or whether she were now as other women.

The two could scarce contain their joy in the hour they greeted one another.

"Joseph hath but a longer beard," cried Mary Clopas. "He hath not, save in the whiteness of his cheeks, been marked by the four summers and winters that have parted us."

As to the carpenter's wife the good woman's tongue was silent. For Mary was no more the slender maid of yester year. She had increased in beauty and in grace. Now she was a woman, and time had changed her countenance, given fullness to her limbs. But sadness had set its stamp upon her brow. Another Mary sat in the place of Mary the maid.

Three babes played upon the earthen floor. Her hands never rested, either she was preparing food for them and her husband or her fingers were busy with the distaff, and she wove cloth as she watched by her children and laboured with such diligence her old friend marvelled not a little.

"Thou art changed in all thy ways," she said. "Tell me, Mary, art thou changed in spirit also?"

"I cannot tell," the other answered. And there was sorrow in the voice as she spoke these words.

"Be not cast down because youth hath flowered into womanhood. But tell me, Mary, dost thou still dream?"

" Nay, I give no thought to what is not of the day. For there are five mouths to be filled and Joseph lay for a long while upon a bed of sickness. Wherefore, we are in debt and must labour ceaselessly until all that is owed is paid."

And her sister perceived that she spoke the truth, learning from her brother that great had been their hardship. "Assuredly I should have died if it had not been for Mary's great love," he declared. "She hath laboured all the day and far into the night these several seasons that I might regain my strength and we should not starve."

Then was the elder woman grieved. Fastening her eyes upon Mary she perceived the marks of her labours and her suffering upon her countenance. "There hath been no time for dreams, no thought for the Son who will be the deliverer of Israel?" she whispered.

"Scarce time for prayer even. Not for many moons have I gone farther than the streets of Nazareth. I walk no more upon the hills."

"But surely one of these three is the chosen of the angels? Hast thou forgotten the promise of Gabriel, his visit to thee when thou wast at the inn among the hills?"

"Nay, I could not forget," Mary answered; "and at times I have wept because no angel hath visited me in these latter days, not even when afflictions were heaped upon afflictions, and I feared lest my babes should perish with hunger, not even when I was compelled to beg bread for them at Miriam's door."

"Then hath the promise of Gabriel been broken?" inquired Mary Clopas.

"Gaze upon these children of mine, and peradventure, thou wilt find an answer."

Mary Clopas perceived that some hard saying was held back by the mother of Jesus so she spoke gently, seeking by persuasion and kindly speech to draw the hidden sorrow from the heart of memory.

And when Mary spoke of that secret trouble it was as if a javelin were drawn from a wound, and anguish and quaking of the body accompanied her confession.

"We were not many months in Nazareth," she said; "and though we held apart from the people life was not hard. There was no hunger in our house; we had enough and were satisfied. Howsoever, Miriam rested not and sought to torment me further. She hired Joseph, causing him to shape new door posts for her dwelling and to labour in her garden. One evening when the heat of day was overpast, and he had not eaten, she bade him to her board, setting him among her guests. And she placed new wine before him.

"Now he was not accustomed to strong drink. And having fasted his head speedily became bemused, his tongue loosed. He told to all the people the tale of my Lord, of the promise given me by Gabriel concerning my first born. Scarce had he made an end when the company began to make a mock of me and of his words. Nay, more, the elders grew wrathful and declared that my wickedness was monstrous, that I sought to excuse myself by telling blasphemous fables. Wherefore Miriam's guests set upon Joseph, driving him forth from the house. He staggered and stumbled, going this way and that. The young men made sport of him, so that anger rose up in his soul and he sought to strike at them, not heeding his steps in that stony way.

"It was at the end of summer and the well in Miriam's garden was empty of water and lay open to the sky. Joseph fell therein: and it was only with much labour they raised him up from it after many hours had passed. And when he lay upon the earth the neighbours discovered that he could not walk. There were but bruises on his back, yet it was as if it were dead. For weeks he lay within the hut and I must tend him and the babe and strive to feed them when there was no money for bread.

"The harvest was scanty on the hills; the vineyards and the olives failed in that season. Those neighbours who would gladly have helped me went hungry also and dared not share their small measure of bread with me else might their own kin have perished. At last I was compelled to beg at Miriam's door. And behold, the poison of asps is under her lips. She would only give me bread if I hearkened in silence to the vile names she set upon me and upon my babe.

"In time health returned to Joseph. But even then I perceived that the hurt caused by the chronicle of Gabriel and of my belief that Jesus was the Chosen One still endured and men looked askance at my husband's work. He is a skilled craftsman and there is not his like on the shores of Galilee. Yet the belief that was my joy and now is my shame, in those months caused the people to pass him by and refuse to hire him for labour in their houses or on their boats. Some traders went even to Tiberias, paying a great price for Tiberian craftsmen; and it is not until this season that the wrath of the people hath abated. They are slowly forgetting the reason for their anger; so if we continue in all quietness and speak smooth words to the neighbours we may be suffered to live and will not starve when winter comes again."

"Then we must be careful in our speech," said Mary Clopas; "and speak no word concerning the promised Redeemer."

"Yea, that is so. For if we do not hide it from all men we shall perish. I am afraid for my husband and my children. Fear and doubt are mine. Peradventure, Miriam declareth the truth. In my ignorance I may have spoken what is but a blasphemous fable." Mary bowed her head, and her countenance showed her distress and anguish, all that she had suffered through the malice of a jealous woman.

After a while Mary Clopas spoke again, saying: "It was no blasphemous fable. I believe, Mary, that Gabriel visited thee in the night time and that his promise as declared by him, will in due course be fulfilled."

"When thou art with me I believe in its truth. But I shall doubt again. I have no knowledge, and the scribe came to me and admonished me for my unseemly beliefs, bidding me regard them as the whisperings of the demons."

Mary wept. Then Joseph called from the garden, and his sister went to him and learned that his mind was now set against that wonder which had made a marvel of Mary's first youthful days. He held it to be a shame that must be hidden away, and he said: "It hath brought me to the very doors of death. Wherefore I know it to be evil."

"And what of the prophecy of Simeon the priest?"

"Nay, he was a false prophet. Great harm hath been wrought by these foolish imaginations of ours. In the coming time I desire that this thing shall be no more known between me and Mary. If we do not bury it deep within our hearts, if we do not in shame blot out its memory, truly the Lord will send a greater punishment and we shall, peradvcnture, perish out of the land. Promise to breathe no word of this shameful thing to any man. Let not my babes learn of it else our troubles will endure. Only if we remain silent shall we have happiness and secure again the prosperous days."

Now Mary Clopas was wise in her generation. She spoke only once more to Mary on this matter. "Be not ashamed or afraid because of this tribulation. Guard the secret of thy past, telling it to no man. But gather within thy heart all these things that have been imparted to thee concerning thy first born; and in the quiet hours ponder on them, asking thyself whether they are not fair and true gifts the Lord bestowed on thee in the days ye did walk together upon the lonely hills."

Mary made no answer; she turned her face away from her friend.

CHAPTER XIV

Clopas served certain Galilean merchants, and because of his uprightness, was charged with their trading in Jerusalem and in Jericho. Mary soon departed from Nazareth in her husband's company, and for a long while she knew not the hills and the lovely coasts of the lake. Now and then travelers bore her tidings of Joseph and Mary. As she must for the most part dwell in Jericho she did not meet with these twain even when they made a pilgrimage to Jerusalem.

But certain of the kin of Clopas declared to his wife that the carpenter prospered and that happiness and peace were the portion of this household. It would seem that when they came to live as other men, when they sought no more the high and noble vision, the Evil One ceased in his persecution of them. They had but the small cares and the small pleasures of the family. And the tidings of their state, borne by travelers, showed that all was well for them, and hardship and fear were no more the spectres that hung about their door.

Seven summers and seven winters wandered by, each one dropping more swiftly into the pool of time. For the hours are the hirelings of joy and pain; and with the passage of the seasons increasing content hastened the days for Mary and for Joseph. They were as one mind, and no word in all those seven winters and summers was spoken by them of the promise of Gabriel, of the glory and splendour of the vision that preceded the birth of their first born.

Now a rich fish merchant desired that Clopas should charge himself with his commerce in Nazareth. So, once again, his wife Mary passed down the winding hilly streets of that town. She rode upon a mule in the long journey from Jerusalem, and now she was weary. But this weariness was forgotten as her eyes fell upon a little company who spoke eagerly with one another. They came it seemed from the school in that street, and were set free from their letters before the heat of the day gathered about Nazareth. One among them Mary knew to be the son of Joseph because of his strong black hair, the girth of his figure and his eyes dark as the ripened grapes.

"This boy is surely the first born; yet it seemeth strange that he should thus have prospered in his growth and be so handsome in his stature," muttered Mary; "inasmuch as he was small and ailing as a babe."

Beside this dark lad, with the rough bronze skin, stood another smaller boy whose eyes were as some soft brown pool shadowed by the trees, whose mien was grave and whose hair was of a russet hue. His pallid cheeks showed that he had neither the strength nor the vigour of his brother. His back drooped somewhat, and he was slender of body and like unto a young birch. As he spoke his whole body moved, it was seized as by the vehemence of a strong spirit that dwelt within it, and yet could scarcely be contained by its frame.

"Truly that lad will stir the souls of men and cause their hearts to bum," said Mary to her husband. I would watch these twain," and she halted the travel worn mule.

The one of greater height bade his companion and the smaller lads follow him and join in some sport by the well. But the brown eyed boy shook his head, saying: "Nay, I would walk among the hills. Let me seek mine own pleasure."

Then the dark youth became angry, and he incited his comrades to bait the lad who would not be of them. They set upon him as many bees within a hive will set upon one bee, and they flung the boy about, striking and smiting him.

Mary asked her husband to admonish the lads. But he would have none of it for he desired to reach his journey's end, and together they went forward, arriving in due course at the dwelling of the fish merchant.

When evening came Mary Clopas sought out the carpenter's house and was received with gladness by Mary who now was in the likeness of other Galilean women. That strangeness of mien, which had been hers, had vanished. She spoke comfortable words to her sister and seemed well content. As they supped together two lads entered the dwelling. These were the two Mary Clopas had encountered some hours before as she entered Nazareth. Soon she learned that the taller of the boys was named Thomas and was not Mary's first born. She was glad, as she had not forgotten the words of Simeon, the ancient, spoken in the Temple at Jerusalem. And truly this black haired youth was as one in a herd. He had strength and vigour and a handsome countenance, but noble understanding was not stamped upon his brow nor was there any light in his eyes. Gazing upon the slender brown haired lad, Mary Clopas stretched out hands to him in greeting, saying to his mother: "I would know Jesus as thy son because he is as thou wert in thy youth. He hath the strangeness of a being who walketh apart, who can never be of the multitude."

Jesus took her hands and smiled up at the traveler. He spoke no word; but the graciousness of his glance, the starry wonder of his eyes smote upon the soul of the watching woman. It was as if change came upon it and that she passed from one life to another. Almost she was frightened, and shook herself, seeking thereby to thrust from her this strangeness, and to enter again into the common mood of the household.

Later in the evening when the children slept and Mary might rest from the day's labours she joined her sister in the garden and spoke of these two lads: "Jesus is plain of countenance and hath no great strength of body, and at times I marvel because Thomas, who is a year younger in age, is strong and handsome and chief among all those of his generation. As Joseph hath declared, Thomas will rise to greatness. I know not in what manner. But the people will make talk of him, and he will be a master to whom the multitude will render homage."

"And what of Jesus?" inquired Mary Clopas.

"Nay, Joseph saith, 'He will come to naught.' And Joseph is a man of discernment. At times he feareth lest Jesus may be led into some snare of evil, lest, when he hath reached riper years he will bring shame upon us. For he walketh alone and maketh a comrade of the wandering beggar. He will not play with the other lads of his generation, and for hours will sit at the feet of travelers and grey beards, hearkening to their stories. I have known him twit a scribe with his ignorance, a scribe whose hairs were white, who is much honoured in Nazareth."

"Jesus will stir the hearts of men, and peradventure, rouse many of them to wrath," murmured Mary Clopas. "Wherefore I like him well."

"Yea' that is true," said his mother; "And because he speaketh hastily, not measuring his words in matters that concern only his elders, I am troubled, fearing lest such sudden angers, such boldness will lead him into seditious ways, and, in a later time, to the prison and the grave."

"But he is gentle of mien," said Mary Clopas, "and hath used me courteously. I perceived him on the road as I entered Nazareth; and behold, Thomas, his brother, struck him on the mouth, yet he did but fold his arms and gaze with scorn upon the striker, not answering blow with blow."

"Wherefore I have no doubt he angered Thomas the more," said Mary. "Truly, I would that he had rendered again that blow to his brother. For verily, he would then have been as other youths. It is this strangeness, his solitary ways and his sudden angers that perplex me and break my rest when I consider them in my mind."

"Jesus is the blossom of thine own lonely childhood and youth," said Mary Clopas. "Condemn him not, for in so doing thou mayest condemn thine hours of highest vision."

CHAPTER XV

For a time Mary Clopas was much concerned with her own household. Her sons were still of tender years, and her days passed in the care of children and in the furnishing of her new dwelling. However, the image of Jesus and the image of those early days of promise before and after his birth were often in her mind. And she spoke of him to James, her eldest son. "Seek out the company of Jesus, thy cousin, and tell me of his doings. Behold, he is wise beyond his years. Set him as an example before thee and go not with those others who will assuredly find fault with him, and mayhap, misuse him."

Now James was a quiet boy who held his peace even when he was with those of his own generation. Few knew his mind on any matter, and he had no quarrels, no controversies even in the games of youth; for his mien was humble. He observed his promise to his mother and watched Jesus, noting his sayings and his comings and goings. It is from his lips that Mary Clopas gathered this fragment of the tale of Jesus and of the first persecution he endured.

. . . . .

There are gentle hills that rise above the lake of Galilee, and in those days fair woods grew upon their slopes-olive groves and vineyards were spread out across the hillside. Above Nazareth stretched a little plain from which the mountains might be perceived.

In the early day Jesus would climb the steep way that led to this flat summit of the hilly land about the town. And James followed him, but did not disclose himself to his cousin who was the eider of the two, for he feared his displeasure. However, Jesus did not look back, but wandered forward with his eyes fixed upon the hill above him. He did not rest until he was far from any habitation, until no eye of man could spy upon him. Then his mien changed. He would sing softly, gather flowers, or rest in the grasses, watching the birds.

After a space when the quiet would seem to have flowed into the young boy's heart he knelt and bowed his head.

Still James watched, and on occasions perceived that the shoulders of Jesus rose and fell, that his body was shaken as by some tempest of the mind. At other times he would be very still, and the watcher stealing close to him, perceived his uplifted face and such radiance, it was as the face of an angel.

Twice or thrice in that spring time Jesus rose from his knees and raised his hand with the gesture of greeting. He spoke aloud, uttering the words of the Holy Books, asking if this or that saying in them was the whole truth, or whether a further measure of words might be added to them; so that men might learn God's will in all clearness. And Jesus would pause and hearken as if a scribe were there who instructed him, or as if sages debated with one another. For he would speak eagerly, and at times, with heat, giving quick answers to what seemed always silence and solitude.

James gazed all around him, searching even among clustering trees, creeping softly here and there. But he could not find any scribe; his eyes only perceived the wood on one hand, the grasses beneath and the blue floor of heaven above him. "Doth he talk with the flowers or the birds?" the boy inquired of the silence.

No answer came, and he perceived that Jesus made eager signs with his hands as if he sought to image upon the air the wisdom that words can but dimly image for men. Always there came those pauses in his speech, the listening air, the eager question of the eye. And still there was no sign in that solitary place of any living man or woman.

Great was the trouble of James. He feared his cousin when he thus conversed with the bright air in the sunrise, when the only answer to his words came from the gentle breeze that blew from distant Carmel, or drifted whispering and sighing across the lake from the farther shore.

Being of a cautious mind James held his peace concerning these talks, and not one of his companions learned of them. He sought his mother's counsel in the matter; and she bade him draw near to Jesus if he communed again with the stones and grasses.

"Nay, neither stones nor grass can hold converse with Jesus," answered the boy. "Someone is there. I know not who it may be. But the Scribe of Nazareth hath told me that demons will at times appear to boys and whisper strange and evil sayings in their cars. He hath warned to me to be careful and to flee if any appear to me, thrusting my fingers in my ears. For if I greet them in speech I will assuredly be tempted and will be led to sin and to damnation."

"Jesus is not one to speak with demons," Mary answered. "Be not afraid. Do as I have bidden thee. And if thou art minded question thy cousin after he has spoken thus again with what seemeth to be emptiness."

So, one grey morning, when clouds crowded about the distant heights and mist wandered over the spreading waters of the lake James hid behind a tree that was but five cubits from the rock whereon Jesus knelt and seemed silently to pray.

It was a still hour and light came slowly. In that dusky time it was hard to read the face of the one who kneeled and gazed upwards into the eastern skies.

Suddenly he rose and cried out eagerly: "Master, I am here. I hearken."

Then followed a silence; and again Jesus cried: "So we are all children of God? . . . Yea, yea, that is so . . . even the wicked, those who have gone astray, even the Gentiles. Wherefore there is mercy for all."

Once again silence fell. But it seemed that this question, this cry that came from the very heart of the lad was answered, inasmuch as the joy of one who hath gathered up a wise saying now changed his face. The first rays of sun fell upon it, and he rose and paced to and fro as if he walked with another. After he had conversed for an hour in this fashion James could bear no more; but came from his hiding place, trembling and crying: "With whom speakest thou?"

Perceiving his cousin, Jesus answered with heat, commanding him to be silent. So stern was the voice of the boy James obeyed, and then certain words were whispered, Jesus drew away from the other, bowing his head.

After he had prayed he came again to the fearful watcher, and said to him: "Didst thou not see the man who walked with me?"

"Nay, I saw naught."

"Didst thou not perceive the prophet? Didst thou not hear his words?"

Nay, nay, the Scribe told me that only demons whisper in the ears of boys."

"And dost thou believe that this Shining One, who communed with me, was Beelzebub, Prince of Darkness?"

"Assuredly I cannot believe him to be other than a devil. The Scribe knoweth all things, so the schoolmaster told me when he bade me hearken to him."

For a time Jesus was silent, and then of a sudden, he plucked a white flower from the grasses. "Doth the Scribe know how this lily of the field groweth and becometh lovely in the sight of men? Doth he know the secret of its life? Hath he understanding of the marvel of the seed that becometh a stem, that thrusteth forth leaves, buds, and at last the blossom that openeth into this fair flower?"

And James answered: "Nay, the Scribe cannot know this thing. 'Only God can know what is made by Him.' Such are the words of the schoolmaster."

"Then the Scribe knoweth not all things."

With troubled mien James bowed his head in assent to these words.

"And if he is ignorant concerning this flower he may be ignorant in a weightier case?"

"Yes, that is so."

"Wherefore, we may well say that the Scribe knoweth not with any surety whether demons whisper in my ear, or whether I speak with a prophet when the Shining One appeareth unto me in the morning silence."

"Yea, that is true. But he is a learned man, and if he cannot declare the name of the Invisible One, or his kind, how canst thou declare it? Thou art but a year older than I am, and thou scarce knowest thy letters."

"I have learned that when I draw apart from others, when I walk alone upon the hills that God, who is our Father in Heaven, can commune with me."

At these words James cast himself upon the ground, trembling and quaking. And for a time he dared not lift his head, for he had been told by his elders that he, an ignorant boy, should not utter aloud the name of the Highest. It was the name of the Ineffable One, and the Holiest of Holies should only be pronounced by the wise men and priests. He feared lest Jesus would be smitten to the earth, and he was amazed when, raising his eyes, he perceived that his cousin was still whole and smiled upon him.

"James, what dost trouble thee now?"

"Thou art surely possessed by a devil. Only a prophet, only a holy one, can speak with the Holiest of Holies. Those are the words of Benader, the Scribe."

"Benader, who cannot tell thee the secret of this small, white flower? Nay, cousin, it is foolish to believe the words of a man because he is old, weareth a white beard and uttereth many sayings. Know that God is my Father, and being my Father He is in me. So I can talk with Him here in the silence while day creepeth over the eastern hills. Howsoever, I bid thee declare these sayings of mine to no man, not even to our kin or to the Scribe."

"Truly I will hold my peace, for I am afraid." James cast his eyes upon the earth, and after a time cried out woefully: "Would that I had not come upon thee in this field! Would that I had not learned thy dark secret!"

"Nay, it is not dark; it is the joy of all my days. For me there is no happier hour than when my Father in Heaven communeth thus with me. If thou couldst but hearken too, cousin, if from out the stillness of this dawn there could flow though thy soul the words of Our Father, then thou wouldst be no more afraid and joy would ever be thine."

"Thou speakest as if thou were the Holiest of Holies, as if thou and the Great Name were One." This time James's face went white and he gaped at Jesus, so great was his terror.

"Nay, I am the son of God. And as the son is in the likeness of the Father so I desire to be in the likeness of my Father in Heaven. The prophet Elias, who appeared unto me on this hill, first told me how I might commune with God, and learn thus to be in His Image and do His will in all things."

As James now gazed upon Jesus and hearkened to his lofty speech, wonder took the place of fear, awe filled his soul, and he bowed his head, saying: "Thou wilt be a great rabbi when thou art grown.

"Nay, I seek not to be a rabbi, I only seek to do the will of my Father in Heaven." After this saying Jesus spoke no more. He went forward through the fields and groves. He was wrapped as in a cloud that held him apart and away from the other lad. At times he raised his head, his eyes lighting up with dream as they gazed down upon the sea of Galilee, or across and around its waters to the encircling hills.

Now the colours of the day brightened all the earth. To the west was the gracious shape of Carmel. Farther away flowed the mountains of Gilboa, disappearing into distance, and closer lay the rounded breast of Tabor, while between the hills flowed the Jordan, the river of promise to Israel. Eastwards stretched the high plains that neither rise nor fall, that seem without end. To the north, the boys knew, was Caesarea Philippi, the corrupt city of the Gentiles hid beneath Hermon. And southwards Jesus turned his eyes while his yearning soul imagined what lay beyond those Samarian hills, the land of Judaea and that Holy City of Zion of which he had no memory, only having been taken there as a babe. The psalms told of Jerusalem, the prophets spoke of it, travelers declared its wonder. And Jesus longed for the hour when his eyes would behold this city of his Father. He believed that walking in its streets, walking in the courts of the Temple he would always have God as his companion, that the nearness of the presence of the Ineffable One would only be truly known to him when, for the first time as a lad, he sojourned in this City of the Great King.

In a later season he spoke of this dream to James, and more and more as the days passed, the boy sought out his cousin, following him and watching by him in his solitary vigils among the heights above Nazareth.

CHAPTER XVI

As he entered his dwelling Mary Clopas perceived that Joseph was angry. She guessed that Jesus had offended, for the lad's face was sorrowful. But it did not hold in it sorrow for trespass. It held only that proud distress which arises when, between two who love one another, there is the vexation of a deep misunderstanding.

In a little while Mary Clopas learned the cause of this trouble. And it seemed to her mind foolishness; inasmuch as the carpenter grieved because the schoolmaster had declared that Jesus drowsed and dreamed over his letters. He who should, by reason of his age, be first among the boys, was last.

Thinking of the tales related to her by James. Mary said: "Jesus is a strange lad and liveth a life apart from the other boys. Truly I believe that in him are the seeds of greatness. Some day Joseph, he will be a master in Israel."

"He will some day be called the fool of Nazareth if he doth not soon learn to read the Holy Book and shape the Hebrew letters," cried the carpenter. "Verily, he hath ever been a subject for trouble and vexation. I teach him and Thomas my trade. But over carpentry also he dreameth and drowseth. He hath a quick wit, yet will not serve himself of it. So Thomas, who is the younger brother, is both the better scholar and the better craftsman."

"Yea, but Jesus hath the greater wisdom."

"Wisdom is the possession of the scribes," Joseph answered. "What can a boy know of wisdom?"

"If thou wilt be the friend of thine eldest son thou wilt soon perceive that he hath a treasure of wisdom, a power of words that to me is a marvel and a miracle."

"Nay, nay, thou talkest foolishly. But what can women know of wisdom. Jesus will yet bring his mother and me to shame by reason of his ignorance and his insolence."

On hearing these words Mary answered: "He hath ever been courteous and kind to me, oft times carrying my pitcher of water from the well to my house. Whom hath he offended?"

"The Scribe of Nazareth," said Joseph. But when questioned by his sister he would not declare the offence; for he feared lest she would mock at him and again praise his son, upholding him in his froward courses.

CHAPTER XVII

The scribes are greatly revered by the people. It is said that the angels bless their learning. When they speak on any matter their sayings are prized; and when they discourse upon the Law of Moses no man dares to dispute with them in Galilee.

A simple folk live in the mountains of that land. They believe that pure wisdom is only to be found upon the lips of scribes. Few of these pass that way. The many teachers, who throng Jerusalem, gather about that great town as bees about a hive. They scorn the simple Galileans and seek only to instruct the crowds that come and go in Zion's City.

So only one scribe dwells in Nazareth and holds intercourse with its inhabitants. Benader is known to all Jews who live upon the borders of the lake. He comes and goes, he visits the villages and the little towns. His voice has been heard even in those Gentile cities of Tiberias and Caesarea Philippi. It is said that his tongue, sharp as a dagger, has even slit up the gross understanding of Romans; that in Caesarea Philippi these have been soundly chastened by it in past days when they sought to debate with this master of words.

"Therefore," as Joseph declared, "the people of Nazareth have good right to be proud of the Scribe. All men should bow down to him, hearkening in respectful silence to his sayings." And, for a time, this was so in that town. But there came a day when travelers rested at the inn; and these were Gentiles robed in costly attire.

The Scribe was challenged by one of them to debate with him by the fountain, for he had declared that the children of Israel alone were the possessors of true wisdom. However, Benader made proud answer. He would not demean himself by talking thus with a Gentile after the fashion of the Greeks. He declared that no faithful believer would either eat with the Gentile or hold speech with him unless there was for it some grievous necessity.

On receiving this message from him the Gentile made mock, saying: "This Scribe is afraid. He knoweth he cannot prove that Jews alone possess true wisdom. He knoweth that wisdom is as a wandering bird that maketh her nest in the trees of many a strange land. Truly he is an ignorant fellow."

Now when these sayings were borne to the Scribe certain Galileans urged that he should meet this stranger by the fountain, and smiting him with many words, cause him to be a mock and a derision, to flee from Nazareth in shame. But Benader would not yield to this demand, though he was much incensed and his choler such he rebuked and reviled his household without ceasing for three days.

The companions of this Gentile who had challenged the Scribe, departed, leaving him alone at the inn. He was pleased with the beauty of the lake and the mountains and would abide there for a while longer. And it came to pass that one day he perceived Jesus walking with a beggar, one named Heli, who would from time to time seek the hills and shores of Galilee. The stranger noted the lovely light in the boy's face and how he hearkened eagerly to the wonder tales of the wilderness told by this bronzed outcast. So he questioned the youth and drew him aside, finding his answers curious and powerful, having an edge and sharpness that delighted his inquiring soul.

He told Jesus to call him 'the Man of Egypt', as he was born in that land. "My parents were Greeks," he declared; "but the land of a man's birth, the country in which he passes his first years, sets its own colours and its seal upon him. So I am an Egyptian though I be Greek. I have journeyed through many lands, and I find that the Jews alone are not thus changed by country and by the people with whom they abide. They are a peculiar and a great people for this reason. And I would study them now before I return to my own place.

"It is because they worship the one true God that they are not changed by country or by circumstance. They are bound together in this one worship, this hone holy belief; and it will endure with them as the rock in this Galilean hill endureth."

The "Man of Egypt" was pleased by the boy's words and bade him and his companions meet him near the fountain, and they would make that wise commerce of talk, that eager barter wherein wisdom is exchanged. This Gentile knew not whether Jesus had understanding of all his meaning. But he was glad when he perceived him at the meeting place, in the company of three or four other lads. it was always his practice to talk with the common people of that land in which, for a time, he dwelt. It was not from the scribes of from the wise men that this Gentile believed he could obtain knowledge. Only simple folk could render that treasure of understanding that pleased his learned mind.

Now Jesus did not know that he talked with a sage. But great was his joy in listening to the speech of this man and in opening his heart, revealing the secrets of his soul. Here was one who spoke as an elder brother might, who could give counsel and was tender and patient, never cruel in his utterance concerning those dreams of Jesus and his walks upon the hills. So these two came to love one another, and were firmly bound by that sure unity of spirit that arises from the same hunger for the truth.

The other lads did not come again to the meeting-place. They had no understanding of the words of the stranger, so only Jesus continued to traffic in this mart of wit, giving no thought to the morrow, nor to the race of this stranger.

However, Thomas soon learned of his brother's wise friend, and he told the Scribe of their meetings, and he also told the schoolmaster that Jesus drowsed over his letters because, in the late evening, he hearkened to the lewd counsels and corrupt tales of the Greek.

The Scribe sought out Joseph, and his countenance was dark as lie spoke of the shame his son brought upon him. "Thou knowest the Law," said Bender; "and the command 'thou shalt not rear pigs, or study the learning of the Greek.' This boy of thine offendeth grievously. See that he is punished and that he seeketh not again the company of this Gentile."

On his return from Joseph's dwelling the Scribe perceived Jesus taking leave of this stranger by the fountain. He waited until his shape could no more be seen upon the road, then he turned and reproached the boy, uttering violent and wrathful words.

CHAPTER XVIII

Now at sunset, it is the custom of the men of Nazareth to gather about the fountain or beneath the trees that are near to it and give a pleasant shade. Here they make talk, and here in this hour several of them rested from their labours. Amongst these was Clopas, a simple and honest soul who had no great liking for the Scribe. Mary, his wife, had moved him with her sayings concerning Jesus. Therefore, when he perceived the Scribe pointing the finger of scorn at the lad, and like an angry snake, hissing his venom at him, he came forward and inquired the cause of this shouting and the reason for his demand to the loiterers to set upon Jesus and beat him till he learned the evil of his ways.

Clopas was a merchant and a man of some account in Nazareth. So Benader felt compelled to give heed to his questions. He turned to the cluster of men who now encircled them and declared that Jesus had broken the Law, and had, therefore, offended against Moses and against God.

The ignorant folk who listened trembled at this accusation. For it was terrible in their eyes when made by a learned Scribe. Some among them cast baleful looks at Jesus who stood there strait and still as a forest tree. No word of defense came from his lips. There was a hush and a dignity about him that only Clopas observed; and this merchant, who dealt with the people of diverse nations, marvelled at it, reckoning for the first time that he was in the presence, not of a boy but of some being loftier and greater than the wisest of grey beards, purer and nobler than the oldest of the Jordan hermits. It was a transformation that came to Jesus only at certain times in those earlier years, or perhaps only at certain seasons could discerning eyes perceive that inner fire of the Spirit that was his alone.

Neither the Scribe nor the crowd marked it in this time; and one of them menaced the lad with a rod while another raised his hand as if to strike him to the earth. But not even this gesture shattered the encircling quiet, or broke up that stillness that hung about Jesus, causing him to remain steadfastly gazing at the raging Scribe.

Clopas was of great size and strength. He seized the arm of the striker, bidding him keep the peace. Then he turned to the Scribe, saying: "Thou hast accused the boy of sins against the Law and against God. Be just and let him answer thee. For we cannot judge or punish until we know the full account of any matter."

Now the people were afraid of Clopas because of his strength and because of his standing as a merchant. They applauded his words, and room was made so that the Scribe and Jesus faced one another in an open space that was surrounded by listeners.

Jesus raised his hand in appeal, turning to them, saying: I have not sinned, and if this Rabbi will answer my sayings I will prove to ye all that I am innocent of any offence. "

The Scribe made loud clamour when thus challenged by a stripling, calling him a Galilean fool and declaring that he would not be brought so low as to answer any questions, and again he commanded the neighbours to chastise the offender. "Then thou art afraid to render what is only justice to this child?" asked Clopas.

Nay, not afraid."

So be it. If thou hast the courage, hearken."

And because the people murmured, whispering that this was a fair demand, the Scribe must perforce face Jesus who said: "Thou hast accused me of offending against God in conversing with a Gentile."

"Yea, it is a grievous offence, inasmuch as thou comest and goest in his company. This is not the first occasion; thou hast many times offended."

Jesus answered: "Master, thou art known to be a learned man. Wherefore I would learn of thee whether it is not true that God hath created the world and all that is in it?"

"Yea, that is so. But speak not the Great Name again. For thy soiled lips profane and blaspheme in uttering it."

Jesus sighed, but heeding not this rebuke, continued: "Then if God hath created all that is in the world He hath created men."

"Fool," cried the Scribe; "the veriest babe in Israel knoweth that God breathed fire into the nostrils of Adam, and, from the beginning, made every living thing."

"Wherefore this Gentile, who conversed with me, is a piece of God's handiwork."

The Scribe made no answer, his countenance falling awry as he perceived the purpose behind this question. But Clopas took up the saying: "Yea, truly, God having created all things living, created also this Man of Egypt."

"That being so, in what way have I offended in conversing with one who is the work of God?"

The people murmured at these words, and a stranger, the very one about whom they debated, cried from the outer edge of the circle: "Bravely said."

So eager were the listeners neither they nor the Scribe perceived the owner of the voice. Benader was disturbed and provoked by the wit of this lad. However, he would not easily yield, answering: "The handicraft of God is befouled and polluted by Satan. This Gentile, yea all Gentiles, are led away by Beelzebub as thou well knowest. Wherefore they are no more a piece of God's handiwork, and thou hast grievously sinned in speaking with one who is of the brood of Satan."

"Verily then, said Jesus, "if the Gentiles are led away, as thou declarest, by Beelzebub, they may be led back to the true path. What they have been, a marvellous work of God, they may yet be again. Is that not so? What need have those who believe, of our conversation. Doth not a shepherd leave his flock so that he may seek the sheep which are lost? And seemingly, if thou, who are revered for thy wisdom, didst speak with this Gentile as he hath demanded, though wouldst change what is ignorance or evil in his heart."

"Yea, I am prepared in this very hour to talk with thee before the people." cried the Man of Egypt, thrusting himself through the throng. And if thou dost worst me in this battle of words I will declare my ignorance and seek to abide by thine instruction and by thy sayings."

The Scribe quaked as he hearkened to this speech. For he was a coward and knew in his heart that he was shallow of wit. Wherefore now, in his craven need, he snarled like a wolf, pointing a finger at the stranger, crying: "Behold the Greek who hath corrupted this boy, who is come among us to lead our children astray and cause them to worship false Gods. Set upon him on the instant. Drive him forth from Nazareth, else he will be the cause of the backsliding of many. And no one can tell what hurt or harm he will bring upon our sons; drawing them down into that pit of abomination and desolation spoken of by the prophets."

Clopas sought to stay the hands of those men who were about him. But numbers of other folk had gathered while the Scribe and the boy thus debated. They did not know the beginning of this dispute but they revered the Scribe, who was of Jerusalem, and therefore, had a great name among them. They obeyed his command, gathering about the stranger, making fierce clamor, throwing stones at him, so that he was compelled to flee, and the crowd followed like dogs upon his heels.

After a time there remained by the fountain only the Scribe, Jesus and Joseph who had come in haste on learning from Thomas that his brother was uttering lewd sayings and insulting the Scribe. Weighty were the accusations, and false speeches were set in the mouth of the boy. These caused Joseph to gather up the dust from the road and cast it upon his head; yea more, he beat his breast and prayed for pardon.

Benader commanded Joseph to chastise his son with the rod and compel the child to fast and to keep him within his workshop, labouring at carpentry. And this timorous man promised to obey him, leading Jesus away with bowed head.

When they were come to the little hut he put all the children who were within outside the door. Then summoning his wife he recounted the tale of accusations made by the Scribe. She hearkened in silence; and Joseph having finished, her piteous gaze searched the boy's face while her lips sorrowfully murmured: "Is this true? Can any son of mine have so blasphemed? Hast thou truly performed this evil? Art thou so utterly gone astray that thou canst thus openly defile the Holy Name?"

And Jesus cried out: "Nay, mother, the accusations made by the Scribe are false. He hath lied in all save one particular. It is true I have conversed with a Greek. But this man spake only of the good to me. He is a sage, and I have gained much by walking and talking with him."

"If the Scribe accused thee falsely," said Joseph, "why didn't thou not deny these charges?"

"Of what avail would be such denial? Thou believest Benader is a man who utters truth. 'He cannot lie!' Such were your words."

"This Gentile hath corrupted thy heart. Thou art utterly gone astray," Joseph lamented. And though Jesus strove to win him with further argument the simple carpenter would not accept his declarations, and thinking of the Scribe's command, smote his son with the rod till he was wearied.

From that hour the child shrunk away from Joseph. His bruises swiftly healed, but the hurt done to his trusting soul did not heal. When she visited her brother, Mary Clopas perceived that the great wrong lay in the blow that had been dealt out to that loving tenderness that Jesus possessed in such great measure for his mother and his father. They would not believe his word; they chose to accept the lying statements of this ancient Scribe. And Mary spoke at length of the shame brought upon them among the neighbours; and this was a true saying. Their looks were cold, heavy their displeasure, they bade their boys hold aloof from Jesus, so that for a time, he walked apart and alone.

Clopas had been summoned to Caesarea Philippi on the eve of the tumult. It was not until his return that he learned from his wife of the evil done to the child through the wicked sayings of the Scribe. And Clopas went to Joseph and declared the true chronicle of that day, speaking with such firmness that the carpenter and Mary must perforce believe his words.

"But that doth not heal the hurt," said Joseph; "even though the Scribe hath lied he is one who speaketh with authority and is held in esteem by the people. Jesus should not have set himself up against such a man. Neighbours who would have given me work, have turned their faces from me. I have lost the respect of men, and time must pass ere we hold up our heads before the people."

"Thou dost mourn for the things of this world," said Clopas. "Are they of such account?"

"Nay, they count for naught," cried Mary.

"And I, who must earn the bread for my children, say that they count for much," answered Joseph.

As he spoke Jesus entered the hut. And Clopas perceived that the first sorrow of youth had set its mark upon his countenance. But even as he moved towards Joseph declaring a message given him, Mary gathered the boy to her, and kissed him again and yet again, tears flowing softly from her shining eyes.

And these two, mother and son, were one in that hour.

CHAPTER XIX

A little store of money was hid beneath the stone of the hearth. One by one the pieces had been added to it in the toilsome months, and at last, enough was gathered. Counting his slender treasure again, Joseph perceived that his purpose was accomplished. In company with Mary he might go up to Jerusalem to attend the festival of the Passover. For two years they had denied themselves this great joy, trade having fallen away and there being other mouths to feed, the baby sisters of Jesus to cherish. However, these might now be left in the care of the old women. And chance in a gift of money from a stranger, who liked certain carvings shaped by Joseph, led to there being a sufficiency for three travelers.

Now since Jesus could walk and talk Mary had spoken to him of that wondrous time when her first born might accompany her on this pilgrimage and witness the glory of the Great City. On learning that this dream might in the coming year be fulfilled, she declared: "This increase of money shewcth that the hand of God is in it; inasmuch as Jesus is of an age when he should go with us. This journey will set him up once more among the neighbours. When he comes back they will not cast baleful looks at him, and the other lads will make friends with him again."

"Nay, Thomas shall go with us to Jerusalem," said Joseph in a loud voice. And the two boys, who were planing wood within the workshop, paused to hearken to his words.

"Thomas is the younger of these twain. Let him wait his turn," answered Mary.

Nay, Jesus shall not go with us for the great festival. I have sound reasons for this determination. He would shame us in the Temple with his ignorance. The friends and kin whom we will meet will ask: 'who is this dull witted boy?' and we shall not be able to make any defense of him."

"But your sister says his mind is as bright as a bird's, that his understanding is as the deep Well of Nazareth. It may not be plumbed."

"Nay, but it is like the dry Well of Bethany that is a cause for sorrow to the camel drivers who vainly seek water in it at the end of summer. The boy is wholly without knowledge. The schoolmaster told me that he doth not yet know any of his letters. Not one word can he read from the Holy Book. In a week's time he will choose one from among the lads for the task of reader to the old men. This chance, he declareth, will fall to Thomas. Wherefore, because he is such an excellent scholar he shall go up to Jerusalem in place of Jesus. Nay, more, the schoolmaster maintaineth that Jesus is still at times possessed by a demon, and on learning of our desire to journey to the festival, hath promised me that the demons will seize upon Jesus in the very courts of the Temple and cause him to make a blasphemous uproar."

"The schoolmaster hath a dark heart. No sweet thing cometh from it," cried Mary. "He hath been hard on Jesus ever since the day the boy twitted the Scribe. Accept not, therefore, his judgment in such a matter."

"But thou canst not deny that Jesus hath failed to read one word of the Holy Book. All the lads will tell you that he knoweth not his letters."

Mary was greatly troubled in spirit, for she could make no answer to this charge. Mary Clopas had, of late, greatly praised her son and called to her remembrance those old days when the people held her to be strange because she was different from them, because she had known the high ecstasy of walking with her Lord. So her joy in Jesus was kindled again into a bright flame, and he was once more her beloved, the wonder and the blossom of her dreaming youth.

She now perceived that he, as well as Thomas, had heard Joseph's words, and that he had leant forward over his tools like a willow bent and cracked by a blustering wind. She trembled, his sorrow flowing into her soul and filling it with mourning. Despite her many cares she had observed these boys and knew that what was the heart's desire for Jesus was but an occasion for delight to Thomas.

However, Joseph was a man of obstinate temper. He would not easily be gainsaid. Therefore, she determined to seek the counsel of her wise sister, Mary Clopas.

CHAPTER XX

As the boys of his own age would not, for fear of the Scribe, walk or talk with him, Jesus sought the company of the little children, and in his hours of freedom, played with them in the fields of Galilee.

They all loved this bigger boy, who dealt so tenderly with them, gathered flowers, leaves and stones, building and shaping them for their delight. At other times he would carry the smallest of these little ones upon his back, or he would summon those who were weary about him. Sitting down in a wide circle, they would hearken to the tales he diligently plaited for them out of his fancies.

Clopas discovered this little company resting beneath a plane tree, and she too hearkened eagerly, taking pleasure in the stories told of Paradise and of the angels who watched by each small child, guarding him from hunger and from all hurt. When the tale was ended and the children scattered, she spoke with the boy, taking his arm and talking with him of those past troubles, learning of his present sorrow. He yearned to go up to Jerusalem and was wholly cast down because this promise, made by his mother, had been broken.

"I would not go in the place of Thomas," he cried. "But I am sorrowful indeed because I may not be one of the pilgrims in this coming year. It was promised me not only by my mother, but by another who walked with me in the early day." At first be would not name that other. However, when Mary Clopas disclosed her knowledge of his vigils on the hills he confessed that a prophet had appeared to him there in the dawn, and had told him he would go up to Jerusalem in the coming year.

Mary Clopas marvelled not a little at this simple saying of Jesus. Now that it came from his own lips she found it hard to believe and wondered whether he had but slept and dreamed upon the hilltop in the early day.

In the morning that followed her talk with Mary's firstborn, she awoke before the dark broke, before the eastern bowmen's arrows of light pierced the mists. And it seemed that a voice called her; so that she arose, and stepping softly among her sleeping children, passed out into the garden. There she stood for an instant listening; then, still drawn by that voice, which seemed to call yet made no sound, she climbed the narrow street, and after it, the hill that rises above the town. Soon she heard footsteps, and knew that some lad clambered up the same steep way.

Her heart no longer doubted; she pressed forward, not halting until she reached a little grove near the brow of the hill. Beyond it was an open space, and as she waited there in the darkness the skirts of night were rolled away, silently vanishing into the western skies.

In that first greyness the figure of Jesus stood out straightly. For an hour or more there was no stir, no sign that he breathed or lived, and always the sunrise gathered more gloriously in the heavens. Golden lights and dark shadows spread about the boy. A floor of many coloured flowers stretched away at his feet. Larks sang above him. A blue blackbird perched upon his shoulder, then lightly darting from it, set itself upon a blade of grass so airily it did not bow beneath the gay singer's weight. Turtle-doves drew near to him, calling one to another. Tortoises, with soft bright eyes, crept to and from the stream that babbled by. Not one of these living creatures was afraid of Jesus. They looked at him as a trusty friend, singing, crying and twittering beside him, fetching and feeding their young, making a strange joy and gladness about the quiet figure of the lad.

Of a sudden all was changed for Mary. She no more perceived the birds, the flowers and the stirring grasses. A white bearded ancient stood beside the boy who lifted up his face to him. Together they conversed, and gazing upon the stranger, Mary Clopas knew that she looked upon an angel or on one who was the servant of Michael or Gabriel. Yea, verily a prophet. She could doubt no mo