Judith’s somewhat cool response caused Miriam to look at her in hurt surprise. The mother flashed a reassuring smile from her seat in the doorway, though never ceasing for a moment her skillful manipulation of a large sieve. It was tossed and shaken and every few minutes tilted sideways to allow a tiny shower of straws and dust to fall upon the ground. While Miriam took up the beds Judith was required to assist her aunt in grinding the newly sieved grain. With a steady, monotonous motion they worked the wooden handle of the mill back and forth, back and forth, never hastening but never stopping until at last the sound of the grinding became lower and lower and finally ceased, the whole grains of wheat having been crushed into a coarse powder between the upper and lower stones of the mill.
It did not take long for this to be made up into dough, patted into small, flat cakes, and baked quickly in the out-of-doors oven made of heated stones. By ten o’clock, as was usual in the Land of Israel, the morning repast was ready: hot bread, fresh milk, and to-day there were young onions dipped in salt. Had this been winter instead of spring, there might have been a handful of raisins or a few olives or the bread might possibly have been dipped in grape-syrup. This meal was always relished, however, for no other would be cooked until sunset. By the time it was finished the morning mists had rolled away, the sun had dried up the heavy dews of the night before, and the distant fields were calling to the husbandmen.
Linking her arm through Judith’s, Miriam guided the newcomer through the one long street of the village.
“Thou hast a beautiful name, Judith, almost as beautiful as thyself.”
“A Hittite name, Miriam, what thy people call ‘heathen,’ so it will not recommend me hereabouts, but thou art named for one of the great women of thy race.”
“Oh, not because she was great,” was the quick response, “but because she was useful and good. Knowest thou not how she cared for her baby brother, Moses, when she was just a little maid like me?”
The conversation was cut short by their arrival at a dwelling from whose open doorway voices floated out upon the balmy air.
“Thy father and I toiling and sacrificing for thee, our only child, and thou rebelling when we ask for appreciation and obedience!”
Another voice, choked with sobs, made answer: “Thou didst have no objection to Benjamin until Abner fancied me.”
“Dost thou add impudence to stubbornness? It is well thou hast thy father and me to see that thy folly doth not ruin thy young life.”