r him, and he cannot
forbear to speak of her: "_And as for me, when I came from Padan,
Rachel died by me in the land of Canaan, in the way, and when yet there
was but a little way to come unto Ephrath; and I buried her there in
the way of Ephrath; the same is Bethlehem._"

Could there be anything more human, more tender than that? The memory
of the sad day of loss and mourning, and then the gentle, aged
precision about names and places, the details that add nothing, and yet
are so natural, so sweet an echo of the old tale, the symbols of the
story, that stand for so much and mean so little,--"_the same is
Bethlehem_." Who has not heard an old man thus tracing out the
particulars of some remote recollected incident, dwelling for the
hundredth time on the unimportant detail, the side-issue, so needlessly
anxious to avoid confusion, so bent on useless accuracy.

Then, as he wanders thus, he becomes aware of the two boys, standing in
wonder and awe beside him; and even so he cannot at once piece together
the facts, but asks, with a sudden curiosity, "_Who are these?_" Then
it is explained very gently by the dear son whom he had lost, and who
stands for a parable of tranquil wisdom and loyal love. The old man
kisses and embraces the boys, and with a full heart says, "_I had not
thought to see thy face; and lo, God hath showed me also thy seed._"
And at this Joseph can bear it no more, puts the boys forward, who seem
to be clinging shyly to him, and bows himself down with his face to the
earth, in a passion of grief and awe.

And then the old man will not bless them as intended, but gives the
richer blessing to the younger; with those words which haunt the memory
and sink into the heart: "_The angel which redeemed me from all evil,
bless the lads._" And Joseph is moved by what he thinks to be a
mistake, and would correct it, so as to give the larger blessing to his
firstborn. But Jacob refuses. "_I know it, my son, I know it ... he
also shall be great, but truly his younger brother shall be greater
than he._"

And so he adds a further blessing; and even then, at that deep moment,
the old man cannot refrain from one flash of pride in his old prowess,
and speaks, in his closing words, of the inheritance he won from the
Amorite with his sword and bow; and this is all the more human because
there is no trace in the records of his ever having done anything of
the kind. He seems to have been always a man of peace. And