nd storm, but as ready to
raise its drooping leaves under heavenly influences. Her position was at
her Lord's feet, drinking in those living waters which came welling up
fresh from the great Fountain of life; asking no questions, declining
all arguments, gentle and submissive, a beautiful impersonation of the
childlike faith which "beareth all things, hopeth all things, believeth
all things." While her sister can so command her feelings as to be able
to rush forth to meet her Lord outside the village, calm and
self-possessed, to unbosom to Him all her hopes and fears, and even to
interrogate Him about death and the resurrection, Mary can only meet Him
buried in her all-absorbing grief. The crushed leaves of that flower of
paradise are bathed and saturated with dewy tears. She has not a word of
remonstrance. Jesus speaks to Martha--chides her--reasons with her; with
Mary, He knew that the heart was too full, the wound too deep, to bear
the probing of word or argument; He speaks, therefore, in the touching
pathos of her own silent grief. Her melting emotion has its response in
His own. In one word, Martha was one of those meteor spirits rushing to
and fro amid the ceaseless activities of life, softened and saddened,
but not prostrated and crushed by the sudden inroads of sorrow. Mary,
again, we think of as one of those angel forms which now and then seem
to walk the earth from the spirit-land; a quiet evening star, shedding
its mellowed radiance among deepening twilight shadows, as if her home
was in a brighter sphere, and her choice, as we know it was, "a better
part, that never could be taken from her."[7] Beautifully and delicately
has a Christian poet thus drawn her loving character:--

"Oh, blest beyond all daughters of the East!
What were the Orient thrones to that low seat,
Where thy hush'd spirit drew celestial birth!
Mary! meek listener at the Saviour's feet,
No feverish cares to that divine retreat
Thy woman's heart of silent worship brought,
But a fresh childhood, heavenly truth to meet
With love and wonder and submissive thought.
Oh! for the holy quiet of thy breast,
Midst the world's eager tones and footsteps flying,
Thou whose calm soul was like a well-spring, lying
So deep and still in its transparent rest,
That e'en when noontide burns upon the hills,
Some one bright solemn star all its lone mirror fills."

Of Lazarus, aro