"The hem of thy garment is heavy with dust and thy feet are torn by thorns," Mary said with concern. "Rest thee. I will unloose thy shoes' latchet and Lazarus will bring thee drink. Thou art weary."

"Yea, footsore and weary. But take thou the branches of orange blossoms. All the way from Ajalon have I carried them to make thee thy festival lulab," [1] and he held the branches to her.

"The Day of Atonement did not find thee in the Temple. From Ajalon hast thou come?" Lazarus asked.

"Yea. On the road to Ajalon there is a place of turning that doth lead over a desert way, and rocky. But when the end is reached, there is a valley of springs giving rise to a stream that at last findeth the Great Sea. And in this hidden and quiet place where the wild gazelle feedeth unharmed because there is no shedding of blood, there is a retreat of the Essenes. Here was I. Neither in the Temple nor out of the Temple cometh At-one-ment with the Father, but in the sanctuary of the heart, Lazarus. And it was in this holy place," and the guest turned toward Mary, "that the air was rich with perfume from a little grove of early oranges and citron. Here I did think of thee and brought thy lulab flowers, though their leaves are faded somewhat."

"Aye, but their fragrance is tenfold, as doth come from broken lilies."

"There is a fragrance that spilleth itself in dying. In this there is a hard lesson thou hast yet to learn, Mary."

"If I learn from thee it is not hard."

"Thou knowest not what thou sayest."

"I go to get thee new wine," Lazarus said.

"And take thou the branches, my brother, except one that I keep on the arbor roof to make the night fragrant like the valley of retreat beyond the way to Ajalon. The others put in the water pot by the cistern that they may be fresh for to-morrow's festival. And hasten thou back with the wine."

"Nay, hasten not," the young Rabbi said. "As I came along the way, travelers did give me figs and wine so that I hunger not. Yet when the moon hath cleared the mountains would I drink with thee thy new wine."

"As thou sayest," Lazarus replied, and taking the guest's cloak and staff he went below.

"I saw thy face as I stood waiting at the door," the guest said to Mary when they were alone. "Thine eyes saw farther than the parapet, and the vision made thy countenance a very pleasant one. Sit thee down and let us look together."

Mary sat down on a foot-stool which he drew to the side of his chair and turned a smiling face to him as she said, "Often in the heavens I see sights more beautiful than words can tell. Look you now, just over there where the clouds bank low behind the olive tops. Dost thou not see fleecy lambs playing on hillsides of ruddy lilies! And over where the mountain casts its purple line across the far-off pink—see thou the pile of marble palaces wrought in such beauty as even Solomon hath not conceived? And canst thou not see rosy chariots driving from the west, the banners of the horsemen streaming and their red and burnished hair reaching into endless tresses? But look you yonder!" and she pointed toward a bank of moving clouds. "There are such beautiful clouds as angel wings are made of, and is not that a distant shore across the sky?"

"Yea," he answered, "and snowy mountains bearing snowy cedars."

"A path of light doth open up between thy snowy mountains," and she leaned eagerly forward.

"Maybe the Golden Gates of the New Jerusalem that lieth four square are opening, if thou hast eyes to see."

"Yea—I see! The clouds are turning into a throng of children—countless children. With snowy robes are they wrapped. Their arms are wings of feathery softness, and white and shining hair doth blow across their faces! Aye—how beautiful, and a golden glow shines over them. Stay! Children, stay!" and Mary pressed her hands together and leaned out across the parapet.

"They are passing," he said, watching Mary.

"Yea, they are passing into the forest of snow and the sea of gold.
But oh, my Master, when hath eye seen a more beautiful sight?"

"Listen!" and he took her hand in his. "There is music for the passing footsteps of thy white and shining children."

Together they listened when, over hills and valleys there came, breathing on the silent air, the thousand throated choir of the Levites chanting in the Temple. As the music came to them, sometimes far and faint and sometimes like a fresh wave on a rising tide, it seemed to bear them away from the world and themselves, save as they were held together by the touch of hands. As the gray of twilight veiled the lowlands, the red fires of booth-dwellers shone out like vivid jewels scattered in irregular pattern, and when darkness had fallen the music ceased.

"My mystery," Mary said softly to herself.

"What is thy mystery?" he asked.

"The way of music with my soul. It casteth a spell over me so that sometimes I am moved to laughter, sometimes to tears, sometimes to great longing, sometimes to a love too great for me. My mystery!"

"Thy mystery will be no more a mystery when thou knowest that thy soul is but Waves of Being."

"I understand not what 'Being' means."

"Nor canst thou. But the way of waves thou knowest. Whether they run mountain high or as the smallest pebble stirreth them, yet is there ever motion, and the one touching the other doth bear the motion to the farthest bounds. So do thy Waves of Being in eternal motion make thy soul's substance."

"Thy words savor of much wisdom, but the meaning thereof escapeth me. Waves of water my eye can see. But Waves of Being—alas! What are they?"

"Hast thou stood by the mountain path when the grass is burned to stubble and the stones by the wayside are as ovens? Hast thou seen coming from the burning earth such waves as seem to be neither black nor white nor substance as thou knowest it? These are waves of heat. So the light taketh its way, and the sound, though the eye of the body may not discern them. The Waves of Being, thy soul's substance, and the waves of light and heat and sound, be but one power made manifest in different degree. And when these unseen waves of melody come to thee from the Temple and strike against thy Soul, they have but found their own, and according to their measure do they stir that which thou callest joy and pain."

"I have seen the waves of fierce heat in the drought time and I have felt the waves of music breaking over my soul—yet question I, and doubt sometimes, all things—even God."

"Lift thy face, Mary—look up! The heavens declare the glory of God and the firmament showeth His handiwork. Ask of thyself who laid the foundations of the earth? Who shut up the sea with doors and said 'Thus far shalt thou come but no farther and here shall thy proud waves be stayed'? Who hath bound the cluster of the Pleiades? Who hath loosed the band of Orion? Who hath put understanding in the inward parts? The inward parts, Mary, that still, small voice? Thou dost not doubt. That which thou calleth 'doubt' is but the unrest of growing, for thou dost ever grow in grace and knowledge of the Truth."

"And shouldst not one find wisdom who oft sitteth at the feet of the
Master of Wisdom and who worketh mighty miracles? Anna hath been to
Nain and hath brought back a strange story."

"How went the story?"

"To the home of a kinsman who owned vineyards near Nain did Anna go. And in Nain there lived a widow whose lot had been hard, for when her husband died his creditors came upon her and when they had done, a Temple lawyer had her one small field and the creditor drove away her milch goats and all the kids that were her winter meat. So grievous was her lot that she must needs fast to save her Temple mite. Nor was this the end of her pitiful plight, for her only son, as he was treading the wine-press, was smitten on the head by the sun, and died. Anna and her brother went to the funeral to help make mourning, and never hath she seen so queer an ending to shrill wailing as she saw that day. 'Ah, if thou couldst have been there,' said Anna. 'From Endor to Nain was Rabbi Jesus journeying accompanied by many. Shouting his praises were the men. Waving olive branches were the women while children did pluck bright leaves and scatter across the pathway. A merry party it was, singing and laughing. Then lo, did the funeral procession make its sad way. Rough was the road toward which it tended and gloomy the valley with gaping tombs. And through this dark valley did the sad note of the funeral dirge sound and with great sobbing and wailing did the mourners march beside the bier whereon lay the dead son of the widow. Thus did the march of Life and the march of Death make toward each other and the way was wide enough but for one of them to pass. On, on they marched, the one passing to the hilltop and blue sky, the other to the bat-ridden place of corruption. When they did meet, on the bier Jesus placed his hand—a hand throbbing with the life of a strong man. And the Death march did stop. "Weep not," said he to the weeping mother. And to the dead did he say, "Young man, arise!" Then did the eyelids of the dead quiver; the set jaw move in its grave napkin; the gray face show the tinge of running blood. Hands stirred underneath the shroud and the dead awakened. It was wonderful! And a young man that had hold of the bier, when he saw the eyes of the dead open and the jaw fall apart, dropped his corner of the bier and ran.' And Anna doth say he is running yet."

Mary's story ended with a laugh in which her listener joined. "This is one of the greatest of thy miracles—so they say."

There was a moment of silence. Then the young man said, "There are no miracles. There is only Knowledge, and lack of it. When a soul is born of the Spirit, he cometh into the Light. Of Light cometh Knowledge and of Knowledge, Power. And as all life is one life, so is all power one power. Power and the Father's will to work bringeth the consciousness that 'I and my Father are one.' There are no miracles."

"By thy wisdom thou doeth away with miracles. Yet do men call thy mighty works miracles and dispute much as to who he is that doeth them."

"Who do men say that I am?"

"Some say thou art Elias. Some say Jeremiah. Some say John. Some say that with a camel train didst thou go to the Far East while thou wert yet a lad and in the schools of the Magi, far beyond the Punjab valley and the Indus, did learn to work wonders."

"And some say I am Beelzebub," he added.

Mary made no reply to this.

"And to turn back into its fleshy form a few waves of the universal sea of life—is this a miracle, think you? Thy life aboundeth in greater miracles."

"Methinks ofttimes that love is a miracle."

"Thou thinkest well."

"And oft my heart hath longed to open my lips to thee."

"Speak on."

"Thou art a man—not a youth, neither womanish. Yet when my eyes did first behold thee, in thy face shone the love of a mother for a child. Herein lieth a great mystery to my heart."

"As all life is one life, so all love is one love. Hath thine own love never exceeded the bounds of thy understanding?"

"Yea. Yea," she answered quickly. Then she paused.

"Say on, Mary," he said, listening with interest.

"Once an infant, brown and foreign, did mistake me for its mother. And on that selfsame day did a brood of motherless nestlings do likewise. Strange sensations came to me, and the strange thought that mayhap there be one motherhood for all creatures as there be a Father to all mankind, and the strangeness of my feeling was the heart-throb of it."

"Wilt thou turn thy face to me, Mary?" he asked. And when she had done so he said, "Thy feet are on the threshold of the mystery thy heart wouldst know."

"And wilt thou lead me across?"

"Dost thou love me, Mary—more than all these?"

"Yea, my master, thou knowest that I love thee."

"Wilt thou drink the cup given me to drink?"

"The cup, though I know not what thou meanest, with thee will I drink."

"Ho! Ho! Ho! The new wine cometh," called Lazarus on the steps, and laughing voices told the two on the housetop that the hour for words of wisdom was at an end. Lazarus and Joel brought the wine and the cups. Anna and Martha followed, carrying trays with sweetmeats and fruit. In the moonlight they set a table for a feast and after they ate and drank, Mary made music on the harp and they sang psalms.

"Lift up your heads, O ye gates, and be ye lifted up, ye everlasting doors, that the King of Glory may come in," their voices sang in unison. Then the women sang "Who is the King of Glory?" and the rich bass of the men's voices answered "The Lord strong and mighty!" Ever and again they sang, until Jerusalem lay dark and the red fires in the valleys had burned out.

"The night is far spent for one who hath come the way from Ajalon,"
Lazarus said at last.

"Bearing orange boughs," Joel added.

"Yet a sweet burden," laughed Anna as the three men turned to the stairs.

"My heart is eager for the festivities of to-morrow night," Martha said as she gathered the cups and bottles. "Lights will shine and the silver trumpets blow, and great will be the throng in gay apparel carrying bright lulabs."

"Yet far will the eye travel before it falleth on such fragrant boughs as these," Mary added.

Anna and Martha laughed. Before they turned from the housetop, Mary picked a blossom from the branch on the arbor roof. "This goeth to my pillow," she said. "It is a sign."

[1] Festival branches carried at the annual Feast of Ingathering.