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.