IT was with a deep feeling of relief that the two families watched the
Master go away into Perea. Phineas still kept with Him. As the little
band disappeared down the street, Ruth hid her face in her mother's
dress and began to cry.
"I don't want my father to go away again!" she sobbed. Abigail took her
in her lap and tried to comfort her, although there were tears in her
own eyes.
"We will go home soon, little daughter, and then father will be with us
all the time. But we must wait first, till after the cold, rainy season,
and the Feast of Dedication."
"What! another feast?" asked Jesse, to whom the summer had seemed one
long confusion of festivals. "Don't they have lots of them down in this
country! What's this one for?"
"Grandfather will tell you," answered his mother. "Run out and ask him
for the story. I know you will like it."
Seated on his grandfather's knee, Jesse doubled up his little fists, as
he heard how a heathen altar had once been set up on the great altar of
burnt-offering, and a heathen general had driven a herd of swine through
the holy Temple, making it unclean. But his breath came quick, and his
eyes shone, as the proud old Israelite told him of Judas the Maccabee,
Judas the lion-hearted, who had whipped the Syrian soldiers, purified
the Temple, and dedicated it anew to the worship of Jehovah.
"Our people never forget their heroes," ended the old man. "Every year,
in every home, no matter how humble, one candle is lighted at the
beginning of the feast; the next night, two, and the next night, three,
and so on, till eight candles shine out into the winter darkness.
"For so the brave deeds of the Maccabees burn in the memory of every
child of Abraham!"
The feast came and went. While the candles burned in every home, and the
golden lamps in the great Temple blazed a welcome, the Nazarene came
back to His Father's house, to be once more about His Father's business.
Joel caught a glimpse of Him walking up and down the covered porches in
front of the Gate Beautiful. The next moment he was pushing and
elbowing his way through the jostling crowds, till he stood close beside
Him.
After that, the services that followed were a blank. He saw only one
face,--the face that had looked into his beside the Galilee, and drawn
from his heart its intensest love. He heard only one voice,--the voice
he had longed for all these weeks and days. Just to be near Him! To be
able to reach out reverent fingers and only touch the clothes He wore;
to look up in His face, and look and look with a love that never
wearied,--that was such happiness that Joel was lost to everything else!
But after a while he began to realize that it was for no friendly
purpose that the chief priests came pressing around with questions.
"If Thou be the Christ, tell us plainly," they demanded. Then up and
down through the long Porch of Solomon, among all its white marble
pillars, they repeated His answer:--
"The works that I do in my Father's name, they bear witness of me. I and
my Father are one!"
"Blasphemy!" shouted a mocking voice behind Him. "Blasphemy!" echoed
Pharisee and Sadducee for once agreed. The crowds pushed and shoved
between the pillars; some ran out for stones. In the confusion of the
uproar, as they turned to lay violent hands on Him, He slipped out of
their midst, and went quietly away.
Joel hunted around awhile for the party he had come with, but seeing
neither Phineas nor Lazarus, started back to Bethany on the run. A cold
winter rain had begun to fall.
None of Reuben's family had gone into Jerusalem that day on account of
the weather, but were keeping the feast at home.
They were startled when the usually quiet boy burst excitedly into the
house, and told them what he had just seen.
"O mother Abigail!" he cried, throwing himself on his knees beside her.
"If He goes away again may I not go with Him? I cannot go back to
Galilee and leave Him, unknowing what is to happen. If He is to be
persecuted and driven out, and maybe killed, let me at least share His
suffering, and be with Him at the last!"
"You forget that He has all power, and that His enemies can do Him no
harm," said Abigail, gently. "Has He not twice walked out unharmed,
before their very eyes, when they would have taken Him? And besides what
good could you do, my boy? You forget you are only a child, and might
not be able to stand the hardships of such a journey."
"I am almost fourteen," said Joel, stretching himself up proudly. "And I
am as strong now as some of the men who go with Him. _He_ gave me back
my strength, you know. Oh, you do not know how I love Him!" he cried.
"When I am away from Him, I feel as you would were you separated from
Jesse and Ruth and father Phineas. My heart is always going out after
Him!"
"Child, have you no care for us?" she responded reproachfully.
"Oh, do not speak so!" he cried, catching up her hand and kissing it. "I
_do_ love you; I can never be grateful enough for all you have done for
me. But, O mother Abigail, you could never understand! You were never
lame and felt the power of His healing. You were never burning with a
wicked hatred, and felt the balm of His forgiveness! You cannot
understand how He draws me to Him!"
"Let the boy have his way," spoke up Reuben. "I, too, have felt that
wonderful power that draws all men to Him. Gladly would I part with
every shekel I possess, if I thereby might win Him the favor of the
authorities."
When once more a little band of fugitives followed their Master across
the Jordan, Joel was with them.
The winter wore away, and they still tarried. Day by day, they were
listening to the simple words that dropped like seeds into their
memories, to spring up in after months and bear great truths. Now they
heard them as half understood parables,--the good Samaritan, the barren
fig-tree, the prodigal son, the unjust steward.
There was one story that thrilled Joel deeply,--the story of the lost
sheep. For he recalled that stormy night in the sheepfold of Nathan ben
Obed, and the shepherd who searched till dawn for the straying lamb.
It was only long afterwards that he realized it was the Good Shepherd
Himself who told the story, when He was about to lay down His own life
for the lost sheep of Israel.
* * * * *
Meanwhile in Bethany, Rabbi Reuben and his wife rejoiced that their
daughter's visit stretched out indefinitely.
Jesse openly declared that he intended to stay there always, and learn
to be a goldsmith like his grandfather.
Ruth, too, was happy and contented, and seemed to have forgotten that
she ever had any other home. As the early spring days came on, she lived
almost entirely out in the sunshine. She had fallen into the habit of
standing at the gate to watch for Lazarus every evening when he came
back from the Temple. As soon as she saw him turn the corner into their
street, she ran to meet him, her fair curls and white dress fluttering
in the wind.
No matter how tired he was, or what cares rested heavily on his mind,
the pale face always lighted up, and his dark eyes smiled at her coming.
"Lazarus does not seem well, lately," she heard Martha say to her mother
one day. "I have been trying to persuade him to rest a few days; but he
insists he cannot until he has finished the scroll he is illuminating."
A few days after that he did not go to the city as usual. Ruth peeped
into the darkened room where he was resting on a couch; his eyes were
closed, and he was so pale it almost frightened her.
He did not hear her when she tiptoed into the room and out again; but
the fragrance of the little stemless rose she laid on his pillow aroused
him. He opened his eyes and smiled languidly, as he caught sight of her
slipping noiselessly through the door.
Her mother, sewing by the window, looked out and saw her running across
the street. Jesse was out in front of the house, playing with a ball.
"Who is that boy talking to Jesse?" asked Abigail of Rebecca, who stood
in the doorway, holding out her arms as Ruth came up.
"Why, that is little Joseph, the only son of Simon the leper. Poor
child!"
"Simon the leper," repeated Abigail. "A stranger to me."
"Surely not. Have you forgotten the wealthy young oil-seller who lived
next the synagogue? He has the richest olive groves in this part of the
country."
"Not the husband of my little playmate Esther!" cried Abigail. "Surely
he has not been stricken with leprosy!"
"Yes; it is one of the saddest cases I ever heard of. It seems so
terrible for a man honored as he has been, and accustomed to every
luxury, to be such a despised outcast."
"Poor Esther!" sighed Abigail. "Does she ever see him?"
"Not now. The disease is fast destroying him; and he is such a hideous
sight that he has forbidden her to ever try to see him again. Even his
voice is changed. Of course he would be stoned if he were to come back.
He never seeks the company of other lepers. She has had a room built for
him away from the sight of men. Every day a servant carries him food and
tidings. It is well that they have money, or he would be obliged to live
among the tombs with others as repulsive-looking as himself, and such
company must certainly be worse than none. Sometimes little Joseph is
taken near enough to speak to him, that he may have the poor comfort of
seeing his only child at a distance."
"What if it were my Phineas!" exclaimed Abigail, her tears dropping fast
on the needlework she held. "Oh, it is a thousand times worse than
death!"
Out in the street the boys were making each other's acquaintance in the
off-hand way boys of that age have.
"My name is Jesse. What's yours?"
"Joseph."
"Where do you live?"
"Around the corner, next to the synagogue."
"My father is a carpenter. What's yours?"
Joseph hesitated. "He used to be an oil-seller," he said finally. "He
doesn't do anything now."
"Why?" persisted Jesse.
"He is a leper now," was the reluctant answer.
A look of distress came over Jesse's face. He had seen some lepers once,
and the sight was still fresh in his mind. As they were riding down from
Galilee, Joel had pointed them out to him. A group of beggars with
horrible scaly sores that had eaten away their flesh, till some were
left without lips or eyelids; one held out a deathly white hand from
which nearly all the fingers had dropped. Their hair looked like white
wire, and they called out, in shrill, cracked voices, "Unclean! Unclean!
Come not near us!"
"How terrible to have one's father like that," thought Jesse. A lump
seemed to come up in his throat; his eyes filled with tears at the bare
idea. Then, boy-like, he tossed up his ball, and forgot all about it in
the game that followed.
Several days after he met Joseph and a servant who was carrying a large,
covered basket and a water-bottle made of skin.
"I'm going to see my father, now," said Joseph. "Ask your mother if you
can come with me."
Jesse started towards his home, then turned suddenly. "No, I'm not going
to ask her, for she'll be sure to say no. I am just going anyhow."
"You'll catch it when you get home!" exclaimed Joseph.
"Well, it cannot last long," reasoned Jesse, whose curiosity had gotten
the better of him. "I believe I'd rather take a whipping than not to
go."
Joseph looked at him in utter astonishment.
"Yes, I would," he insisted; "so come on!"
A short walk down an unfrequented road, in the direction of Jericho,
took them to a lonely place among the bare cliffs. A little cabin stood
close against the rocks, with a great sycamore-tree bending over it.
Near by was the entrance to a deep cave, always as cool as a cellar,
even in the hottest summer days.
At the mouth of the cave sat Simon the leper. He stood up when he saw
them coming, and wrapped himself closely in a white linen mantle that
covered him from head to foot. It was a ghostly sight to Jesse; but to
Joseph, so long accustomed to it, there seemed nothing strange.
At a safe distance the servant emptied his basket on a large flat rock,
and poured the water into a stone jar standing near. Last of all, he
laid a piece of parchment on the stone. It was Esther's daily letter to
her exiled husband.
No matter what storms swept the valley, or what duties pressed at home,
that little missive was always sent. She had learned to write for his
sake. By all his friends he was accounted dead; but her love, stronger
than death, bridged the gulf that separated them. She lived only to
minister to his comfort as best she could.
Simon did not send as long a message in return as this trusted messenger
usually carried. He had much to say to his boy, and the sun was already
high.
Jesse, lagging behind in the shelter of the rock, heard the tender words
of counsel and blessing that came from the white-sheeted figure with a
feeling of awe.
As the father urged his boy to be faithful to every little duty, careful
in learning the prayers, and above all obedient to his mother, Jesse's
conscience began to prick him sorely.
"I believe I know somebody that could cure him," he said, as they picked
their way over the rocks, going home. "'Cause He made Joel well."
"Who's Joel?" asked Joseph.
"A boy that lives with us. He was just as lame, and limped way over when
he walked. Now he is as straight as I am. All the sick people where I
lived went to Him, and they got well."
Joseph shook his head. "Lepers can't be cured. Can they, Seth?" he
asked, appealing to the servant.
"No, lepers are just the same as dead," answered Seth. "There's no help
for them."
Jesse was in a very uncomfortable frame of mind, as, hot and dusty, he
left his companion and dragged home at a snail's pace.
Next morning Joseph was waiting for him out in front. "Well, did she
whip you?" he asked, with embarrassing frankness.
"No," said Jesse, a little sheepishly. "She put me to bed just as soon
as I had eaten my dinner, and made me stay there till this morning."