ery to thy heart? God of our fathers, Mary!
After these days our brother stinketh! Wouldst thou court the woes of
corruption by opening the tomb? Arise! Wrap thy veil over thy face.
The mourners will soon be coming."

"Nay, I go not. Even before the Master's teaching brought me wisdom
did my heart oft question the gain of lamentation and disfigurement,
the soiling of the hair with ashes and the itching of the flesh with
sackcloth. What is the use to turn beds upside down, to shut the
sunshine out with black and give voice to naught but howls and wails?
Bringeth this back the dead?"

"Thou art queer at times. Wouldst thou do away with our ancient
customs? Since the days when David did wail in sackcloth for his son,
hath Israel so done."

"If there be not reason in customs, wherefore hold to them? Is it
forbidden the Jew to gain wisdom in a thousand years, or must we ever
follow custom for no other reason save that we follow? Dost thou not
believe in the resurrection as the Master teacheth?"

"I believe my brother shall rise again in the resurrection at the last
day."

"Then why much fruitless mourning? Oft to my mind come the words of
the Master. In the quiet of the garden did he tell me of the time his
father Joseph fell asleep in death, and his words to his mother bore
her up with comfort. When I am alone, in my heart, I try to seem as
the mother of Jesus in her trouble, and take to myself his words to
her. Aye, Martha, if the Master had been here what comfort would have
been ours. Didst not thy heart call for him?"

"I did wish for him, yea. But forgettest thou the kindness of Joel?"

"I had no Joel--but listen, Martha. Afar I hear the sound of mourning."

"It is our mourners coming round the hill from Jerusalem," Martha said
after listening a moment. "Many friends and a fat purse getteth much
mourning. Wilt come?"

"Nay, I like not hired mourning. It seemeth but noise. Here I will
stay and let my tears drop where they will not be counted by the
passer-by."

The sound of flutes and wailing voices, which before had seemed far
away, came nearer. Martha drew her veil across her head as she turned
in the door. "I go to join the mourners at my brother's tomb. When
thy friends ask of thee, what reason shall I give?"

"Tell them weariness hath overtaken me and I would be alone."

"Is there none thou wouldst see?"

"Nay, not one," Mary answered softly.

As Martha passed down the steps