The scent of freshly turned earth, mingled with the fragrance of citron blossoms, hung on the air as a woman from a Galilean fishing town made her way around a hill-path that overlooked the highway and entered into it a little farther on. It was the time of plowing and sowing in Palestine. In a field close by, a sower with a basket on his arm scattered the seed broadcast. Farther down the hillside a peasant was beating his seed into the soil with branches and thorns, and in the valley could be seen a flock of goats being driven back and forth across the field to cover the seed. But the woman was not interested in the sowers. On a stone near a clump of citron she sat down to watch the long roadway for a first sight of one beloved. Months before he had bade her farewell and had journeyed to Judea. In his own Galilee he was accounted a great and mighty teacher and wonder worker and gladly had his message been heard by the common people who followed him in throngs and oft would have proclaimed him king. But from Jerusalem had come conflicting reports, and it was with a strange hope and a strange fear the woman waited his return.

The sower with the seed bag had gone and the birds had come in his place; the thorn branches had been cast aside by the man on the hill and the goats were being driven from the valley field, when the figure of the woman, who had been sitting like a statue on the gray stone, suddenly became animate, and with eager step hastened into the highway to meet an advancing pilgrim. Wearily he came as if even his staff were too great a burden, until he saw the woman. Then his pace quickened. With outstretched arms she greeted him, crying in joy, "The God of our fathers bless thee, my son!"

Tenderly he embraced her, pressing the kiss of peace upon her cheek and saying, "Blessed art thou among women!" Then putting her away he said, "Is all well with thee, woman—my mother?"

"Yea, save that my heart hath grown hungry to starvation for a sight of thee, my beloved son, and anxious have I been to hear news of thy pilgrimage throughout Judea and beyond the Jordan. On thy long journey, thou hast found friends, and rest and love?"

"Friends and rest and love," he repeated, and the expression of weariness on his face gave place to a smile. "All these I found under one roof, which was to me a home."

"And who were these kindly ones and generous?"

"A young man, Lazarus of Bethany, and his two sisters. And the one of them is Martha, much given to cooking fine meats and sweeping for dust where it is not."

The woman laughed and asked of him, "Doth this Martha love thee?"

"Yea, as she loveth her brother."

"And the other sister, doth she too brew gravy and seek the dust?"

"Nay. She doth make lilies grow and seek the pearl of greatest price.
At my feet hath she chosen the better way than that of meat and drink.
She is born into the Kingdom."

"Doth this sister, too, love thee?"

"Doth she love me?" he repeated. But he made no answer save as it was written in the face he turned toward the distance beyond the plowed fields.

"What is her name?" his mother inquired very softly, lest she dispel some pleasant thought.

"There is but one name."

"But one name—and yet a world of women?"

"Mary," he repeated, as if to himself.

"Thy mother's name," and the woman laughed for joy.

"Yea—my mother's name."

For the time of a short walk the light of glad memories shone in the face of the pilgrim. Then the expression that told of a heavy burden came again. "Like sheep without a shepherd are my people scattered," he said wearily, "and there is no Zion. Rome alone is ruling there through the Imperial Legions housed in the Tower of Antonio, over against the city of David. Even the Sanhedrin hath turned wolf-hearted so that for gain the people are fleeced like the ewe lamb, and with none to succor—and my Father's house hath become a den of thieves."

"Even so do I remember," the woman replied sadly. "When thou wert my tiny one close to my breast, I went to the Temple with my offering of a dove. And lo, in the Temple were sellers of doves. One stopped me who said of my offering, 'It hath a blemish.' And forthwith I was sold one thrice blemished. Yea, I remember, for they took from me my last penny for the ill-favored bird and at a dry breast didst thou, my little one, struggle that night unsatisfied. But thy great and wondrous teaching—thy new commandment that is to bring the Kingdom, will it not make all these things right?"

"Nay, woman, nay. New wine in old bottles doth but burst them. So will this new law of love, this new law of justice established in man's heart, burst the old customs that hold men in bondage. Then much fasting, long prayers, much saying of 'Lord! Lord!' will avail nothing, but only man's duty to his fellow man. For how can man love God whom he hath not seen, if he fail in duty to his brother? For this teaching in the Temple did those pious assassins of the Temple take up stones to kill me. Herein is my heart greatly troubled. I preach the gospel of love and of justice; but bran for the belly and stripes for the back beget brute creatures that know not how to love. Neither can he love who withholds all save bran, nor stays the hand that holds the scourge."

"My heart catcheth the sadness in thy face," the woman said softly as the young man looked out into the gathering dusk. "And a fear doth pain me lest my merry child hath gone from me forever. But yesterday thou wert my little one. When first I heard thy cry, e'en though thy cradle were a manger, it was as if angels sang, and the pressure of thy lips against my breast brought to my heart great joy as if the glory of the motherhood of all the ages were mine. When thou didst learn to walk, thy baby feet made sweet music and thy wee hand on my cheek oft drove away heartache. When thou wert older, thou went to the fields with me. Dost thou remember the sloping hillsides red with lilies in which thou didst roll thy body? And at the seashore—rememberest thou the little tracks so soon washed away? And dost thou remember thy first visit to Jerusalem and the valley of weeping where the dark streams issued from the crags and many tombs were hewn from rocks? Here it was we camped and thy father and I did miss thee. And dost thou remember the questions thou wert asking when we found thee in the Temple? Many times had thou asked them to me before. And Nazareth—doth thy heart remember thy playmates—Jael and the others?"

"Jael? Yea, verily I remember Jael."

"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."