"People pacing the decks of the ships, crossing the deserts, or trading in the shops, talk only of Him and His miracles; they have aroused the greatest interest even in Athens and the cities of the Nile. The very air seems full of expectancy. I cannot but think great things are about to come to pass. Surely the time is now ripe for Jesus to proclaim Himself king. I cannot understand why He should hide Himself away in the wilderness as if He feared for His safety."

Lazarus smiled at the old man, with a confident expression. "Be sure, my friend, it is only because the hour has not yet come. What a sight it will be when He does stand before the tomb of our long dead power, to call back the nation to its old-time life and grandeur. I can well believe that with Him all things are possible."

"Would that this next Passover were the time!" responded Reuben. "How I would rejoice to see His enemies laid low in the dust!"

Already, on the borders of Galilee, the expected king had started toward His coronation. Many of the old friends and neighbors from Capernaum had joined their band, to go on to the Paschal feast.

They made slow progress, however, for at every turn in the road they were stopped by outstretched hands and cries for help. Nearly every step was taken to the sound of some rejoicing cry from some one who had been blessed.

Joel could not crowd all the scenes into his memory; but some stood with clear-cut distinctness. There were the ten lepers who met them at the very outset; and there was blind Bartimeus begging by the wayside. He could never forget the expression of that man's face, when his eyes were opened, and for the first time he looked out on the glory of the morning sunshine.

Joel quivered all over with a thrill of sympathy, remembering his own healing, and realizing more than the others what had been done for the blind beggar.

Then there was Zaccheus, climbing up to look down through the sycamore boughs that he might see the Master passing into Jericho, and Zaccheus scrambling down again in haste to provide entertainment for his honored guest.

There was the young ruler going away sorrowful because the sacrifice asked of him was more than he was willing to make. But there was one scene that his memory held in unfading colors:—

Roses and wild honeysuckle climbing over a bank by the road-side. Orange-trees dropping a heavy fragrance with the falling petals of their white blossoms. In the midst of the shade and the bloom the mothers from the village near by, gathering with their children, all freshly washed and dressed to find favor in the eyes of the passing Prophet.

Babies cooed in their mother's arms. Bright little faces smiled out from behind protecting skirts, to which timid fingers clung. As they waited for the coming procession, and little bare feet chased each other up and down the bank, the happy laughter of the older children filled all the sunny air.

As the travellers came on, the women caught up their children and crowded forward. It was a sight that would have made almost any one pause,—those innocent-eyed little ones waiting for the touch that would keep them always pure in heart,—that blessing their mothers coveted for them.

But some of the disciples, impatient at the many delays, seeing in the rosy faces and dimpled limbs nothing that seemed to claim help or attention, spoke to the women impatiently. "Why trouble ye the Master?" they said. "Would ye stop the great work He has come to do for matters of such little importance?"

Repelled by the rebuke, they fell back. But there was a look of displeasure on His face, such as they had never seen before, as Jesus turned toward them.

"Suffer the little children to come unto me," He said, sternly, "and forbid them not; for of such is the kingdom of heaven!"

Then holding out His hands He took them up in His arms and blessed them, every one, even the youngest baby, that blinked up at Him unknowingly with its big dark eyes, received its separate blessing.

So fearlessly they came to Him, so lovingly they nestled in His arms, and with such perfect confidence they clung to Him, that He turned again to His disciples. "Verily I say unto you, Whosoever shall not receive the kingdom of God as a little child, he shall not enter therein."

Met at all points as He had been by loathsome sights, ragged beggars, and diseases of all kinds, this group of happy-faced children must have remained long in His memory, as sweet as the unexpected blossoming of a rose in a dreary desert.

At last the slow journey drew towards a close. The Friday afternoon before the Passover found the tired travellers once more in Bethany. News of their coming had been brought several hours before by a man riding down from Jericho. His swift-footed beast had overtaken and passed the slow procession far back on the road.

There was a joyful welcome for the Master in the home of Lazarus. The cool, vine-covered arbor was a refreshing change from the dusty road. Here were no curious throngs and constant demands for help.

Away from the sights that oppressed Him, away from the clamor and the criticism, here was a place where heart and body might find rest. The peace of the place, and the atmosphere of sympathy surrounding Him, must have fallen like dew on His thirsty soul. Here, for a few short days, He who had been so long a houseless wanderer was to know the blessedness of a home.

Several hours before the first trumpet blast from the roof of the synagogue proclaimed the approaching Sabbath, Simon hurried to his home.

"Esther," he called in great excitement, "I have seen Him! The Christ! I have knelt at His feet. I have looked in His face. And, oh, only think!—He has promised to sit at our table! To-morrow night, such a feast as has never been known in the place shall be spread before Him. Help me to think of something we may do to show him especial honor."

Esther sprang up at the news. "We have very little time to prepare," she said. "Seth must go at once into the city to make purchases. To-morrow night, no hireling hand shall serve him. I myself shall take that lowly place, with Martha and Mary to aid me. Abigail, too, shall help us, for it is a labor of love that she will delight to take part in. I shall go at once to ask them."

The long, still Sabbath went by. The worshippers in the synagogue looked in vain for other miracles, listened in vain for the Voice that wrought such wonders.

Through the unbroken rest of that day He was gathering up His strength for a coming trial. Something of the approaching shadow may have been seen in His tender eyes; some word of the awaiting doom may have been spoken to the brother and sisters sitting reverently at his feet,—for they seemed to feel that a parting was at hand, and that they must crowd the flying hours with all the loving service they could render Him.

That night at the feast, as Esther's little white hands brought the water for the reclining guests to wash, and Martha and Abigail placed sumptuously filled dishes before them, Mary paused in her busy passing to and fro; she longed to do some especial thing to show her love for the honored guest.

Never had His face worn such a look of royalty; never had He seemed so much the Christ. The soft light of many candles falling on His worn face seemed to reveal as never before the divine soul soon to leave the worn body where it now tarried.

An old Jewish custom suddenly occurred to her. She seemed to see two pictures: one was Aaron, standing up in the rich garments of the priesthood, with his head bowed to receive the sacred anointing; the other was Israel's first king, on whom the hoary Samuel was bestowing the anointing that proclaimed his royalty. Token of both priesthood and kingship,—oh, if she dared but offer it!

No one noticed when she stepped out after awhile, and hurried swiftly homeward. Hidden away in a chest in her room, was a little alabaster flask, carefully sealed. It held a rare sweet perfume, worth almost its weight in gold.

She took it out with trembling fingers, and hid it in the folds of her long flowing white dress. Her breath came quick, and her heart beat fast, as she slipped in behind the guests again. The color glowed and paled in her cheeks, as she stood there in the shadow of the curtains, hesitating, half afraid to venture.

At last, when the banquet was almost over, she stepped noiselessly forward. There was a hush of surprise at this unusual interruption, although every one there was familiar with the custom, and recognized its deep meaning and symbolism.

First on His head, then on His feet, she poured the costly perfume. Bending low in the deepest humility, she swept her long soft hair across them to wipe away the crystal drops. The whole house was filled with the sweet, delicate odor.

Some of those who saw it, remembered a similar scene in the house of another Simon, in far away Galilee; but only the Anointed One could feel the deep contrast between the two.

That Simon, the proud Pharisee, condescending and critical and scant in hospitality; this Simon, the cleansed leper, ready to lay down his life, in his boundless love and gratitude. That woman, a penitent sinner, kneeling with tears before His mercy; this woman, so pure in heart that she could see God though hidden in the human body of the Nazarene. That anointing, to His priesthood at the beginning of His ministry; this anointing, to His kingdom, now almost at hand. No one spoke as the fragrance rose and spread itself like the incense of a benediction. It seemed a fitting close to this hour of communion with the Master.

Across this eloquent silence that the softest sound would have jarred upon, a cold, unfeeling voice broke harshly.

It was Judas Iscariot who spoke. "Why was all this ointment wasted?" he asked. "It would have been better to have sold it and given it to the poor."

Simon frowned indignantly at this low-browed guest, who was so lacking in courtesy, and Mary looked up distressed.

"Let her alone!" said the Master, gently. "Ye have the poor with you always, and whensoever ye will, ye may do them good: but me ye have not always. She hath done what she could: she is come aforehand to anoint my body to the burying."

A dark look gleamed in the eyes of Judas,—there was that reference again to His burial. There seemed to be no use of making any further pretence to follow Him any longer. His kingdom was a delusion,—a vague, shadowy, spiritual thing that the others might believe in if they chose. But if there was no longer any hope of gaining by His service, he would turn to the other side.

That night there was another secret council of some of the Sanhedrin, and Judas Iscariot was in their midst.

When the lights were out, and the Temple police were making their final rounds, a dark figure went skulking out into the night, and wound its way through the narrow streets,—the dark figure that still goes skulking through the night of history,—the man who covenanted for thirty pieces of silver to betray his Lord.