The Passover moon was shedding its soft light over the garden of Lazarus, when Mary and Martha came from the house and sat down on the broad rim of the fountain basin. The day had been a busy one, and the day to follow was to be crowded yet fuller with work and pleasure for it was the day of the Great Feast.

"Anna's father doth give a feast to-morrow for his Passover guests, and for Jesus, who will be gone with the sunrise on the third day that he may escape danger. Joel hath been bidden with Lazarus, and Anna doth desire that we come to help her with the serving," Martha said as a beginning to her comment on the hospitality of Simon.

While they discussed the feast to be given by their neighbor, Lazarus joined them and said to Martha, "I am going to Simon's and Anna doth desire that thou come to plan with her for the feast to-morrow. Wilt thou also go, Mary?"

"Who goeth?"

"Joel goeth. Joseph hath gone to the roof and Jesus doth rest on the couch in the window."

"I go with thee," and Martha rose and turned to Mary, who said, "Nay, I go not. I will stay and gather lilies."

"Hast thou not yet learned the heart of man doth delight in meat and drink—not in lilies?"

"Thou forgettest the Master, my sister. The guest of honor will he be before his long going away, and thinkest thou he will not know whose hand plucked the lilies?"

"Mary hath the last word on thee, Martha," Lazarus said, laughing. "Let us be going," and they crossed the garden to the gate that opened into the court of Simon.

After they had gone, Mary went the length of the garden to her lily beds. While she was gathering the blossoms, Jesus came from the house and looked about him, and as he passed into the shade of the big olive tree, he discovered Mary. He stopped and watched her, as with her arms full of lilies she came toward the pool. In the silver light of the moon her soft white garments and silky veil lent spirit-like appearance to her slender body, and her face was beautiful with a rare beauty not born of flesh. When she reached the pool she knelt and placed the lily stems in the water. Rising, she hesitated a moment, then turned into the walk leading to the old stone wall where she often stood to watch down the roadway for expected guests. For a few moments she leaned against the vine-grown stones gazing away into the moonlit distance. Then she dropped her head on her arms which lay folded across the top of the wall.

In a little while the stillness of the garden was broken by a voice which said, "Mary." She looked up with a start. Again she heard her name, "Mary."

Recognizing the voice she ran to the shade of the olive tree exclaiming, "Master! Master!"

She found Jesus sitting on the old stone bench and knelt beside him on a foot-stone. "Rest thou beside me," he said to her.

"Nay. Nay. At thy feet have the hours most precious to my heart been spent."

"Hath my teaching meant this to thee, Mary?"

"Yea. It hath meant all in life worth living for."

"Yet didst thou stand at the wall with bowed head."

"Yea. As the olive branches crossing the moon's light throw shadows over thy shoulders, so doth fear ofttimes coming across my faith, throw shadows on my heart. As I stood by the wall looking down the pathway thou dost often tread, the words of our servant Eli came to me, and fear for thy safety like a burden fell upon me. At other times the continual changing, maketh my heart sick and my soul to long for that which changeth not. To-night thou, Jesus, and I, Mary, sit beneath the olive shade. Strong is thy step and in thy voice is mastery. Abundant is my hair and dark, and my body is supple and full of life. Yet will Time make of thy strength, weakness, and the frost of many winters will thin my hair and whiten it. In that day the keepers will tremble, the silver cord be loosened and the pitcher be broken at the fountain. Strange feet will tread the paths of Olivet and strange eyes look back on Jerusalem. Yet to-night we are here, thou, Jesus, and I, Mary. To-morrow—and then we shall be no more. Like feet ever fearful of the way and reaching for the solid rock, so the heart reaches for that which changeth not. Ever thou teachest 'God is love.' Doth love change?"

"Nay, Mary. Love remaineth the same, yesterday, to-day and forever. Yet the manner of its expression oft changeth. This knowest thou. The child that presseth its lips to her breast and fondleth her cheek, doth the mother love. So also doth she love the man that the child groweth into. And though he be hanged on the highest tree of Calvary, will she stand by and cover the hisses of the rabble with her sobs, for she doth love him though he is no longer at her breast. The lover doth love his love in life's springtime with wild passion. Then her form is round and her cheek fair and his strength is in the making. When life's evening cometh—the flame hath given way to the soft glow. Then her shoulders stoop and her cheek is pale and his strength is in the garner, yet he doth not love the woman less, but differently. Love is the soul of the Universe and showing itself in service doth fulfill all law. My Father worketh hitherto, and I work also."

"Aye, my Master, I know thou lovest. In a tone akin to reverence hast thou oft spoken of thy love for thy mother. With great tenderness lovest thou little children, and thy fellow man—aye, have I not oft heard from thy lips that to do away with the kingdom of swords and hunger and want and bitterness—aye, to bring in the Kingdom of man's Brotherhood, thou wouldst be willing to lay down thy life? Strong and fearless, even tender is thy love as thou art a man. Yet because thou art a man, there is a love thou knowest not?"

"There is a love my heart doth not divine?"

"Yea, so my wisdom telleth me. Yet when I saw thee first a mother's love shone in thy face."

"And is there a love greater than a mother's love, Mary?"

"Yea, my Master. There is the love of which this mother-love is born."

"What manner of love is this?" and he leaned toward her as he waited for her answer.

"Before cometh mother-love, cometh woman's love for a man," she said after a brief hesitation.

"The mystery thou divinest. Thou art a woman. Tell me—what is the love of a woman for a man?"

"Thou dost ask me concerning the love in the heart of a woman that doth make it hunger for one man alone—apart from all the world, and in her dreams feel his arms about her, and beside a cradle look with him upon bone of their bone and flesh of their flesh? Dost thou ask me this?"

"I do ask thee, woman."

"And I do answer thee. A woman's love is a white flame on a deathless altar burning for the High Priest of her heart, where, over their united love the Shekinah doth hover as holy incense. And when the flame doth burn and the ear be ever listening for the priest in snowy raiment that cometh not, then doth the flame be ever consuming itself and the heart groweth sick, for woman's love desireth to give all."

"And doth thy ear listen for the footsteps of thy sacred altar's one
High Priest?"

"Ask me not, my Master—ask me not. From my heart I have already lifted the veil too far aside for it is not given woman to speak of her love, though it is her life. Yet love is strange—love is holy!"

"Thou sayest well 'Love is strange—love is holy.' Love is the breath of God which corruption hath not power to touch. And as it hath been ordered of the Creator that woman desire to give all, so hath it been given to man's love, to ask all—aye, Mary, to take all. So there are not two loves different. A man's love and a woman's love are but the two parts of that love which is both center and circumference of all that is. And among mankind it is the love that moves the woman and the man each to forsake all others and cleave one to the other. And thinkest thou I know not this love? Knowest thou not the fathers of Israel are a race of lovers? Did not our Father Jacob toil seven years for her whom his soul loved? It were not a female he would take unto himself, as a beast doth mate, else Leah would have served as well as Rachael. But for the love of Rachael did he toil yet other seven years. Nor did his body rest in the tomb until her bones lay beside him. And of the love of Boaz—were not Israel's kings begotten of this love? Aye, it was a lover of Israel that did sing 'Love is strong as death!' Of this race that has lived and loved and written of love and died loving come I. In my veins doth run the blood of a nation of lovers. Rise, Mary, and sit thou beside me. My heart hath that to say which my lips have not yet spoken."

When Mary had moved from the stone at his feet to a place beside him, Jesus said, "Sit thou close to me, aye, so close that not the shadow of a silver olive leaf can come between our souls—thy soul and mine, for since mine eyes first beheld thee on the Temple porch thou hast been more to me than thou canst ever know. Weary have I oft come to thy home and thou hast rested me. Faint-hearted have I come, and thou hast strengthened me. Disappointed, and thou hast cheered me; discouraged with those dull of comprehension and thou hast understood, and while thou hast sat at my feet to learn, much have I learned of thee. Yea, thou hast been my friend, my counselor, my comrade, my disciple—all things thou hast been to me save one and without this, all other were but the hunger thy heart doth feel—were but the High Priest waiting where there were no altar fire. Mary, thou art my Rachael. Thou art my Ruth. Thou are my Rose of Sharon and my Lily of the Valley. As a rose among thorns, so to my heart art thou among the daughters of Zion. Thou art my soul's beloved! Woman—woman—I love thee! Lovest thou me with the love that is one with mine?"

"Love I thee? Aye, Lord, thou knowest that I love thee. Love I thee with all my soul, mind, strength and body. Yea, I love thee—not for a moon—not for a harvest—not for a jubilee of years—nay, not for the long centuries that make dust of our fathers' tombs. But until the Jordan forsaketh its course—until the moon droppeth forever behind Moab's hills—aye, beloved, until the mother forsaketh her son hanging on the highest tree, will I love thee—and after that forever! For is not our God love? And is not God eternal?"

"Ah, Mary! Mary! The mystery of Love! Love is Life. He hath not known life who hath not felt the creative energy of the universe throbbing, breathing in his soul which love bringeth—aye, love of a woman. And yet—yet there be some, eunuchs which were so born: there be eunuchs which were made eunuchs of men: and there be eunuchs which have made themselves eunuchs for the Kingdom of Heaven's sake." The last words were spoken by the young Rabbi as if to himself. He lifted his face to the moonlight for the moment and something like a sigh escaped his half closed lips. Then he turned again to the woman.

"Mary—beloved, there is a cup which each of us must drink. The cup that Life hath given me to drink hath ofttimes been filled with the bitterness of want, with loneliness and heart hunger. But knowledge of thy love doth overrun it with exceeding sweetness so that all suffering seems as naught. Blessed be the God that hath turned thy heart to me."

Again they sat silent in the shadows of the olive tree for a few moments. Then Mary spoke slowly and softly.

"To be here—just here alone with thee! Better than heaven it is to hear thy voice, to feel the pressure of thy hand and to know that the throbbing of thy heart is for Mary. Thou makest my soul to dwell in groves of myrrh; to wander on mountains of frankincense and to feed in valleys of lilies. Though every drop of water in the fountain, though every silver leaf on Olivet were the tongue of a Levite shouting praise, this were faint singing beside the hosannahs of my heart because I am my beloved's and he is mine! This were enough—enough! Let the cup of Life be what it may! Henceforth thy cup be my cup."

"Knowest thou what thou sayest, woman? Doth thy heart know?"

"Yea, my heart knoweth. Where thou goest I will go. Thy lot shall be my lot. Thy dwelling shall be my dwelling whether cave or palace. Thy pillow shall be my pillow whether crimson wool or stone. Thy joy shall be my joy. Thy poverty shall be my poverty and my riches, thy riches. Thy danger shall be mine. Thy suffering shall be mine and whether come victory or defeat, this shall be ours together!"

"If victory cometh by way of that which men call 'death,' couldst thou see victory in this?"

"Speak not of death, my beloved," Mary said quickly, "when life hath just begun."

"Thou hast great faith, Mary, yea and great love. Yet do shadows sometimes fall across thy heart. So also doth fear cast over my heart shadows. Last night in the stillness, words I heard spoken in Jerusalem did come to me until from the darkness that hung roundabout, a cross did seem to lift itself and afar I seemed to hear my own voice calling faintly for water."

"Nay, nay," and there was fear and the burden of a sob in Mary's voice. "Tell me not this evil thing! It doth make the shadow of the cross to fall upon my heart, dark and heavy."

"Be not burdened with it for from my heart all shadow fled with the coming of the new day. And to-night, this blessed night, do I feel life never held so much. Love maketh it doubly sweet."

"Thou art right. The cross were but a troubled dream. For malefactors and thieves and slaves of Rome is the cross. But not for a Prophet—a Rabbi—a Teacher—aye, a King."

"Not for a King sayest thou? Herein lieth my danger. Pilate's ear is never closed nor his lust for blood ever satisfied, neither his greed for the approval of Caesar, and Pilate's crosses are ever ready for those who stir up the people. But weep not nor let thy heart be troubled. The uplifted cross of the dream I take as warning. Daily I teach in the Temple and none dare take me for my following. At night I abide without the city, where, none know save those who are my friends. When the Passover is done, I will go away for a season."

"Wilt thou be with us to-morrow? Ah, wilt thou come again to me when the moon doth rise after to-morrow's busy day?"

"On the morrow we sit at meat with Simon. The Passover supper I eat with my disciples in the city, for so have I given my promise. If all go well I will return to thee when the moon cometh. If I am late, wait thou until the crowing of the cock, for where my treasure is, there is my heart also, and thither will my feet turn though the hour is late."

The crowing of a cock beyond the garden wall told the man and woman on the old stone bench that the hour was late. They arose and stood together just at the edge of the wavering shadows cast by the ancient tree.

"Alone on Olivet!" Jesus said in subdued voice. "How calm—how holy is the garden, and the new day that the crowing of the cock doth bring to us . . . . . . . . . . . . From the little town of Bethany lieth the road to the City of Zion, whither our feet tend. But between this calm and holy place and the towers of snow and gold that shine in glory from the City of God, lieth Kedron. Quiet with the hush of long silenced tongues, and dark with the shadow of tombs, lieth Kedron. . . . . . . . . . . . Mary, if it be that for a little time I should go on ahead of thee, even to the battlements of the New Jerusalem where the saved of Levi send their glad songs ringing over all earth's valley, will I watch for thee, my beloved. And if through the Valley of the Shadow thou shouldst be called to go alone, remember that I am with thee."

"Remember will I? Yea, ever will I remember that there is not in the universe that which can destroy love. But thou wilt come again on the morrow night. I feel it in my heart, and may the Lord watch between thee and me while we are absent one from the other."

"It shall be even so for what God hath joined together none can put asunder. The peace of God that passeth understanding and His Everlasting Arms of Strength, tender as those about a bride, protect thee. Farewell, my Mary. Woman, fare thee well."

"Farewell, my soul's beloved. Until the morrow, fare thee well."