“‘And as they went up the hill to the city, they found young maidens
going out to draw water, and said unto them: Is the seer here?
“‘And they answered them and said, He is, behold he is before you;
make haste, now, for he came to-day to the city, for there is a
sacrifice of the people to-day in the high place; as soon as ye be
come into the city, ye shall straightway find him, before he go up to
the high place to eat, for the people will not eat until he come,
because he doth bless the sacrifice; and afterwards they eat that be
bidden. Now, therefore, get you up; for about this time ye shall find
him.’ Oh, Miss Marion, that is like me. I was getting a drink of
water and I sent two men to find the Bensalem seer.”
“Even Saul couldn’t find the way without the maidens,” reflected
Marion.
“And they were put in the story for all the world to read about; I
wish people wouldn’t forget about girls now-a-days.”
“Who does?” asked Marion; “this is the girls’ century.”
[Illustration: “I wish people wouldn’t forget about girls
now-a-days.” “Who does?” asked Marion; “this is the girls’ century.”]
“Nobody ever thinks about me. I am never _in_ things like the other
girls. Aunt Rody will never let me go anywhere; Aunt Affy coaxed her
one day, and cried and said she was spoiling my girlhood, but Aunt
Rody was worse than ever after that. I cry night after night because
she will not let me go to boarding-school. Boarding-school has been
the dream of my life; I make pictures about it to myself. Did _you_
go to boarding-school?”
“Yes, for one year, and was glad enough to go home again. I wish you
would come to school to _me_; do you suppose you could?” asked Marion
with a sudden and joyous inspiration.
“O, Miss Marion,” was all the girl could reply for very gladness.
“We will plan about it, Roger and I. If you can come and stay all day
and study, and take music lessons, three or four days a week, it will
be better than boarding-school for you, and more than you can think
for me. You have been on my mind, but I didn’t dare propose anything;
I knew Aunt Affy would not be allowed to have her way.”
Both Judith’s arms were about Marion’s neck, with her face hidden on
Marion’s shoulder.
“I’ve wanted a sister all my life,” she said laughing and crying
together.
Sunday morning on entering church her attention was arrested by a
large map stretched across the platform, or half-way across it; the
pulpit had been removed and in its stead were flowers, a row of pink
bloom and shades of green.
A tall gentleman, with the very blackest hair and beard she had ever
seen, arose and stood near the map.
How her heart gave a throb when he said, touching a spot on the map:
“That is Antioch, the place where the disciples were first called
Christians. I was born in Antioch, where Paul and Barnabas preached
Christ. I was born in Antioch, and I was re-born in Antioch.”
Judith held her breath. He was a disciple, a Christian come from
Antioch. She drew back, almost afraid; she felt as if Christ must be
there standing very near this disciple.
He talked about the beautiful city and made it as near and real as
this little village in which there was a church of disciples. It was
like seeing one of the twelve disciples, Peter, or James, or John; or
perhaps Paul, because he had been in Antioch.
But he said he had been “reborn” there; what could he mean? Re—again;
born again. Was he born twice in Antioch? She had been born only
once. Must every disciple be born over like this disciple who was
born both times in Antioch?
For a long time she puzzled herself over this new, strange thing;
then, when she could not bear it any longer, she asked Aunt Affy.
“When he was born, and for years as he grew up, he did not love and
obey Christ, and then the Holy Spirit gave him a loving and obedient
heart, and that loving and obedient heart is so new that it is like
being born over again,” was Aunt Affy’s simple, and sure unraveling
of her perplexity.