“Are you not sorrowed at his absence, Miriamne?”
“Sorrowed! Truly not; but unspeakably glad that he walks with the sons of God; a very king, I know, amid the greatest. Oh, how sad I’d be to see the poor, dear, tired old man with his overfull heart and trembling limbs now going about in painful ministries here! God was twice good; in leaving him so long, then in taking him. Ah, if there were more like that old saint, those that there are would not need to tarry till their twilight.”
“Shall we prolong our stay?”
“No! I’ve listened long enough to the lull of eternity here. Bozrah’s past has taught me its all. I’m ready to go home.”
“Home! When, to-morrow?” ardently questioned Cornelius, anxious himself to depart the Giant City.
“After to-morrow; the coming day, at my instance, the memorial of my parents is to be set up.”
The following morning, just before sunrise, the husband and wife repaired to the tomb of their loved ones, to witness, by pre-arrangement, the unveiling of a memorial. It consisted of two figures carved from whitest marble; a woman’s form with a face expressive of tenderness and beauty, marked with deepest grief, but not with hopelessness. Across her lap there lay the form of a young man, the rigors of death plainly marked on his face and limbs. There was no mistaking the representation, and Cornelius quickly exclaimed:
“I know the one that sits thus holding that crucified body! ’Tis real! Impressive! Awful!”
“It is fitting, think you?”
“I’m too much moved to judge, perhaps; though I do wonder that you have not had carved upon the pedestal the names of your dead, or some explanation.”