"Often I think of those days and remember that then, even as now, the question oft asked was, 'Can any good thing come out of Nazareth?'"
"A cruel question and senseless. Can any good thing come out of hunger and cold and fear of the Law?" he asked quickly.
"Ah, the long struggle—the bitter struggle that the poor know. Toiled we not from sun to sun, yet ofttimes was our table bare of honey and fat, and my heart ached that thy tiny garments must always be thin and patched, that thou, my little Jesu, should be poor of the poorest."
"Poor? Nay, rich was I above all others, rich in the love of thee, my mother! Woman, the richness of thy love hath blessed my life and through my life, thy love shall bless the world."
There was a moment's pause. Then the woman said in tones of reverence, "Yea, I love thee—love thee! And when thou art far away, all things speak of thee, ofttimes with sadness. As I lay on my roof alone, the waves that roll nightly against the near-by shore seem sobbing—ever sobbing under the silent stars for that which can be no more. And as I journey over the paths where once thou wert with me and thy hand lay close in mine, the mourning dove calling from the cleft of the rock bringeth to my heart the pain of unutterable longing for days that be gone forever. Before thy ax and tools wert laid away thou didst make many things, one day a cradle—the next a bier. And between these two doth all life lie. Life, like the red lily—yesterday a bud hidden in its green; to-day a flower reaching toward the sun; to-morrow a dried leaf waiting for the oven. As I think on these things I grow sad and fearful. Yesterday the throng would make thee king. To-day those of the Temple would stone thee. To-morrow—to-morrow it may be the crown and the Kingdom—or—it may be—" The woman's voice which had been growing unsteady, ended in a sob and she hid her face against the shoulder of the young man.
"Weep not, woman, nor fear thou death," he said reassuringly. "Verily, verily, I say unto thee, except a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone; but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit. Hast thou not often thought of this as thou hast seen the sower and the reaper in his season?"
"Aye, of the Kingdom thy words be comforting. But to my heart thou art dearer than e'en the Kingdom."
"Fear not death. Death is but change. Change is but growth. Growth—ah, growth is life. Didst not the infancy of thy babe give place to the childhood of the boy who played in the market place? Didst not childhood drop into the silence of the past as the youth swung his ax on the hills of Nazareth? And the days of the carpenter—are they not dead days? Is not the bench of the carpenter deserted forever? Aye, hath the babe, the child, the youth all gone that the man may live. And to-morrow will the man pass to yet another higher form in my Father's plan of more Abundant Life. Verily, all that hath gone on before must die that that which is, may live. Verily, that which is, must die, that that which is to be, may be. But ever the thread of Life goes on unbroken and always upward on the way. Whilst thou liest alone at night and the waves of Galilee make moaning in thy heart for that which can never return, think on these things."