“Lazarus,” said Martha to me one day, “had we not better bring our father’s remains to Bethany and bury them with our mother’s? It would spare us these long trips to the desert.”
Keen-sighted, motherly sister! But I—who had not then met with Helena and knew nothing of love—I answered:
“Oh no! these visits to John are the most delightful events of the year.”
On the fourth spring of these visits Mary took down a little flower-pot with a rose in it for John.
“I bring you a gem,” said she, “of nature’s light—a lamp, a star, to illumine the darkness of the desert.”
That evening when returning, Mary and John fell behind the rest of us, and when I turned to look after them, he was pointing out to her some rare beauty of the clouds about the setting sun; and her face, turned full upon him, [pg 118]was all aglow with a radiance not reflected from terrestrial skies.
The fall visit was looked forward to with unusual pleasure. It was a glorious day. Why was it that the desert seemed more solitary than usual? As we approached the cavern, the silence was appalling. There were no recent footprints on the sands. The spiders had spun their webs across the mouth of the cave. It was utterly deserted. John had gone. He had taken away his pallet of skins, his earthen vessels for food and drink, his sandals, his long staff. The flower-pot lay upon the ground with the little rose-bush in it, long withered and dead.
The sisters burst into tears; and Martha kissed the little one most tenderly on the cheek.
The Spirit of God, which impels men to the great missions of the world, drives them away from the bloom of nature and from the gardens of the soul,—away into the wilderness, where, tempted of devils and sustained by angels, they gather strength for the doom and glory which await them!
Our father’s remains were brought to Bethany. Mary’s cheek grew paler. The dew of tenderness trembled always in her eye. She searched the Scriptures all day long for the coming Messiah. At night she dreamed—