"Let me carry thee out, my dear, as thy father does, and lay thee among the olive trees," said Pathema, feeling keenly, while she held the invalid's thin, white hand bearing the marks of toil.
"Thou art not able," replied Biona huskily, and with grateful tears, adding to herself in a dreamy whisper—"My father, poor father!"
But Pathema was wiry and enduring, easily fit for the fragile burden, and having by a word persuaded the sufferer she wrapped her in a long white chiton, and carried her with great tenderness out into the cooler welcome air, beside the refreshing spring.
"How delightful is rest!" said the dying girl, as she gazed up through the olive branches into the clear blue sky.
"There is abundance of rest in store, my beloved, even the rest that remaineth for the people of God."
Biona lay quietly, enjoying a measure of peace. Her pet white dove, flying from an overhanging branch, came down beside her; it hopped upon the pillow, and with gentle wing softly brushed her pallid cheek. She turned her head toward it, and gazing fondly upon the affectionate creature, forgot her weariness for a time—a little time. Then she began to move her head restlessly, whispering often and with yearning look the word father.
The watchful attendant changed the weary one's position, and gave her rest again. This was done as often as it was needed, and the need had no end. Pathema prayed earnestly for the sufferer's recovery or release. Her voice was the heart's melody, soft and soothing, if to soothe were possible.
The father, a big sympathetic man, had by this time reached the bordering olive trees, on his way home from a brief search for aid. His clothing was very simple and plain: a dark exomis (a short sleeveless frock), and shoes of leather, studded with nails. As was common, he was bareheaded. He had a melancholy foreboding that calamity was near at hand. His oxen stood idle in their stall from early morning. Noticing with surprised relief that his child was already out in the grove, with some merciful one reclining by her side, he stole up a little nearer and halted unobserved.
"Oh! for rest, rest," his daughter faintly cried; and the strong man shook with emotion. "Oh! that I might be at rest!" she cried again, as if a last feeble effort, "but how hard it is, how hard! to leave my little brothers and my poor lonely father."
Creeping closer, Pathema raised Biona's weary head and placed it tenderly in her own bosom. Feeling that the spark of life was low (for the little hands were getting cold), and that words were unavailing, she closed her eyes and became absorbed in silent prayer.