own little thoughts, and her great, boy, with sparkling eyes; a fine one too, though I did not go after it. Abiram, the weaver, says it is coming hither. I ran on to let you know; and Abiram says-" "It is the King!" cried Miriam ; "it must be the King; and we shall see Him-see Him, Ben-oni!" Her eyes, turned toward the city, were watching for something, and for something that did not come; for, at the sound of a low cry within the house, she turned with a sigh of disappointment, and went in. The shadows of the vine-leaves followed her, and painted the floor, and touched her when she took the baby from its little bed, and sat down with it in her arms, hushing its cries. "There, Rachel! hush! hush! Rachel, thee must not cry; mother will come to thee soon. Miriam has been looking for some one, Rachel-hush! and she will tell thee. Wilt thou not listen, and hear how Miriam was watching for-" "Miriam!" called a boy's voice from without. "Miriam !" "Ah! there is thy brother, baby Rachel. We will go and see Benoni." She went to the doorway again, and stood with the child in her arms. The shadows of the leaves upon the two, made, perhaps, a prettier picture than the other. "Hast thou been toward the city, Ben oni?" "I should like to see Him well enough," said the boy, affecting carelessness; "but Abiram says He is no King-this Nazarene-but a bad man, and a sorcerer, Miriam. He says our King will come with a golden throne, and a crown, and soldiers-think, Miriam ! He will not bring ragged fishermen, and walk on the dusty roads, Abiram says, like this Jesus." "Hush, Ben-oni!" answered Miriam, her great eyes darkening; "thou art doing wrong. Our mother says He is the Christ, and she knoweth. Indeed, He must be, for they say He doth make the dead alive. I think of Him-oh, so much, Ben-oni. I lie and dream and dream about Him in the night. I wonder if He will look at me, Benoni." The boy, abashed, made no reply, and Miriam, with the child in her arms, came out from under the vines, and stood beside him. "Where is our mother?" asked he, looking down the road. "She is with neighbour Zipporah, who is sick. Mother sits by her, and says the Psalms to her. Benoni! see! see! is not that ?—yes, surely, He is coming!" He was coming, the King, the Lord Omnipotent. Far down the dusty road, wearied, footsore, travelstained, without a place in which to lay His head that night-the poor of the earth His only friends; their sins His burden; their sorrows His grief. He was coming. Miriam stood out in the sunlight, the child still clinging to her neck. Ah! would He notice such as she -a little, foolish girl, who knew nothing but how to take care of the baby and sweep the house? Would He see her, bending forward there, the eager colour in her cheeks, her upturned eyes, with the worship in them, seeing alone, in all the passing throng, that one pale face, with its brow of pain and peace? ? Did you ever think how many such beautiful pictures came to Him in His weary years-pictures of waiting eyes, and tender household joys, and young, fresh fancies Did you never wonder if, while He saw and blessed them, they gave Him one moment's rest? Did He never take them into His heart, and carry them with Him on His sorrowful way, side by side with the hush of twilights, and the tenderness of far-off skies, and the brightest things our poor earth could offer Him? I like to think so. For He turned and looked upon Miriam. And the crowd, with its faces of sin, and pain, and mourning, swept Him on. 66 'There," said Ben-oni, "He's gone." Miriam drew a long, long breath. "Did you see Him, Miriam ?" She sank down upon the grass, and covered her face with her hands; she made no answer. "He was very pale," prattled the boy, heedless of her silence; "but His face was kind, like-like-why, I think it's like our mother's when we are sick. Miriam-see Rachel is creeping away." Miriam looked up, and took the child back again into her arms. "Ben-oni, those were His disciples-the fishermen." "Yes, and others too, Miriam. People go to Him in the city; and Jacob, the carpenter, went from here last night. They say Eliakim, down the street, will go, and-" 66 'Ben-oni-" The boy looked up into her face. "Ben-oni, I wish I could be one of His disciples." "Why, thou art nothing but a woman, Miriam !" "I know it. I do not suppose He wants any women for His disciples. And then there is nobody else to help mother." "I should rather stay at home," observed Ben-oni, puzzled at her look. Miriam rose and carried little Rachel into the house. When her mother came, the two looked into one another's eyes. "Hast thou seen Him ?" "I have seen Him." "It is He! "I believe it." "Dost thou know," asked Miriam, her voice low and awed, "dost thou know whither He has gone?" "It is said He goeth up into the mount to pray there," replied Elizabeth. And Miriam pondered this in her heart. The shadows grew long, at last, upon the mountain slope; and the olives reared their princely heads against a darkening sky; the sheep upon the pastures were gathering to their folds; the birds chirped drowsily in hidden nests; and the winds were cool and sweet along the valley-beyond, the towers of the city had caught the last gleam of the sun-setting. Miriam had helped her mother to prepare the evening meal, and hushed the baby's fretful cries into dreams; and now, stealing out across the fields-the touch of the western glow like a crown upon her forehead, and the hush of the twilight in her eyes-she waited and lingered alone. For whom? For whom should Miriam wait? Not for Him-not for the King? Surely, she might not dare-it was not for her to be the disciple of her Lord. But she had seen Him, and seeing, she had loved Him. He had looked into her eyes. He had turned upon her His brow of pain and peace. Deep in her heart she had felt His story-she would tell it very quickly, in a few, little, timid words. She should like to have Him know that she loved Him-just to know that. And she hoped He would not pass her by. blessing. What though it was a little, girlish heart, filled with its foolish dreams and wayward fancies, as ignorant of life as it was of the laws of science that ruled the sunbeam on the cottage floor, and as pleased with it-poor little heart! What of that? It was wise enough to believe in Him; it was great enough to love Him. Would He ask for more? Would He turn away from the simple trust and love, or would He take it and be pleased with it, and keep it as His own? Miriam did not know. She only knew that, somehow or other, she dared to tell Him; that He had smiled upon her when she stood out in the afternoon sunlight; that the smile was tender-oh, far more tender than her mother's, or Benoni's; that His eyes were still and kind; she only knew that she longed to be His disciple. But what should Miriam do? What should poor Miriam do? She could not follow Him in His wanderings; bear with Him the burden of His weary days; share with Him His scanty fare; and pray with Him upon the cold, damp hillsides, when the world had left Him friendless and alone. She thought she would be so glad to do it; but she could not. For who, then, would help the mother, and quiet Rachel, and teach Ben-oni the songs of the prophets? Who would sweep the floor, and tidy the house, and care for the little garden? Who would love and kiss her mother, when she went down into her widowed old age? No; Miriam could not follow the King. But she should like to tell Him. Perhaps He would not listen; and how could He understand? He would know nothing of Ben-oni, and the baby, and the garden. But then He had looked upon her; and His smile was kind. Perhaps He would just listen to her So, stealing along beneath the shadows, her heart-the poor foolish heart that was only wise enough to trust its Lord-beating fast and warm against her clasping hands, she came at last to a little still place beneath the trees. It was very still. The folded flocks were quiet; not a bird chirped in the branches; a little path worn bare of grass wound past her, and threaded its lonely way up, far up, where the hilltop lay in shadow, and a crown of struggling stars hung faint and fair beyond. There she stopped, and waited for His coming; the colour flushing and fading on her face; her heart still beating fast and warm against her clasping hands. She knew His voice when it came at last; far through the still twilight she heard its first low cadence, and His step across the meadows, which the ripples of Kedron silvered. The throng had broken, but the people had not left Him yet alone. Wearied and faint, He had turned away from those to whom He had ministered since the sunrise, to seek, upon the hilltop, the silence and the rest of prayer-poor earth, that never gave Him any other rest! But even now they had not left Him quite alone. An old man, his hair white with threescore years of sin, had followed Him to be forgiven; a mourner sobbed beside Him; and a woman, with her face hidden in her hair, crouched trembling at His feet. Beyond, a cripple, crawling on the grass, cried feebly to Him. Called so, to be the comforter of pain, should He care to give His wearied moments to bless earth's joyous things? Himself a man of sorrows, would He turn aside to the happy child waiting for Him there in the twi-wanted to follow Thee. But, Master, light? I cannot go; for I must sweep the floor, and wash the cups, and care for Rachel. There is no one but me to do it; and so-and so-" Perhaps He loved to see the happy faces perhaps He loved to bless them indeed, I think He did. For you remember the old story of the little children. The world's one great Mourner-I do not think He ever refused or forgot to rejoice with them that did rejoice. 7 Miriam did not fear it. Like other happy creatures, she did not know that she was happy, nor dream of the sharp contrasts she might bring into aching hearts. She only knew that He had healed the cripple, and cheered the mourner, and bade the sinning go in peace. She only thought that He was coming now to her; and all her fear was gone. So, Miriam, standing breathless, waited, and He came. Turning up her eyes, in which the rest of the twilight had deepened and darkened, she saw His face; and she saw nothing in all the world besides. And then she told Him her faltering story. He heard the timid words, and the little stifled sob. He knew all she would have told Him. And beholding Miriam, He loved her. What He said to her she never told-then, or at any other time. She took it into her heart, down deep into the holy of holies, where no human words had ever entered, and drew the veil upon it. There she kept it as her treasure, long after He had ascended to His Father. There she kept it, hushing all discords of her life to harmony, and turning all her pains to peace. There she kept it, until she sought the place He had prepared for her, and found Him in His glory, face to face. What it was, I do not know. But this I know-that when the next day's sunlight woke her, to sweep the floors, and draw the water; to get the breakfast, and mend Rachel's tiny garments, and follow Elizabeth, soft-eyed and gentle-voiced, about the morning work-she knew that she was His "Master,pit is Miriam. I am a poor little girl-a very foolish little girl. I know nothing but how to help my mother. I saw Thy disciples in the crowd to-day, and I disciple; and she was content. "As we have therefore opportunity, let us do good unto all men, especially are of the household of faith."-Galatians vi. 10 unto them who a THE Apostle enjoins upon us the duty of embracing the present opportunity for good. Let us then reflect for a moment on the consequence of neglecting opportunity. How important a principle is involved in the words of the great dramatic poet Most of the calamities of the present life are the result of neglected opportunities. Neglect the instruction of a child, and he will grow up in ignorance. Neglect the seasonable opportunity for cultivating your ground, and the passing observer will say, "I went by the field of the slothful, and by the vineyard of the man void of understanding; and, lo, it was all grown over with thorns, and nettles had covered the face thereof, and the stone wall thereof was broken down." And if thou dost likewise only simply neglect thy opportunity of husbandry, "So shall thy poverty come as one that travelleth, and thy want as an armed man." Neglect your business, and no one will be surprised to see your name in the bankruptcy list. No worldly interest can prosper where there is neglect. Well might the Apostle ask, with regard to the higher interest of eternity, "How shall we escape, if we neglect so great salvation?" Let no reader therefore lay the flattering unction to his soul, that because he has not indulged in flagrant sins, because he has not been a studious sower of evil, or a diligent agent in the destruction of his own soul and the souls of others, that therefore he shall stand acquitted in the judgment. Why was that fearful denunciation, "Curse ye Meroz"? Simply because they neglected the opportunity of coming to the help of the Lord against the mighty. They had not taken up arms against Jehovah; they had not gone over to the ranks of the enemy; but they had neglected the duty incumbent upon them of active adherence to the rightful cause. Parents! what an opportunity you have of training your children in the nurture and admonition of the Lord. We speak not now of those parents who, by positive evil example and influence, instead of training their children up for heaven, are training them down to hell; but even professedly Christian parents, it is to be feared, neglect the golden opportunity of instructing their children by domestic devotion and daily instruction in the things which pertain to salvation. Dr. Read, on "The Revival of Religion in the Family," furnishes an affecting instance of the heart-breaking results of such neglected opportunity. "I knew (says the Doctor) a youth of about sixteen years of age, who was of a generous but froward temper, and he resolved to go to sea. He was tenderly beloved by his mother; and she had educated him with as much religious care as most parents. No sooner, however, was he placed beyond her reach, than memory and conscience were busy with her; and she thought bitterly of the many opportunities that might have been improved for his spiritual welfare, and were not. She reproached herself, but found present relief in the sincere resolution that on his return she would without delay be more earnest for his conversion to God. Alas for her-he never returned! he was lost at sea. The shock laid her prostrate, and left her distracted. What she regarded as neglected opportunities rose in her mind like the great waters, and threatened to overwhelm her. And still that tender and gracious spirit is battling in doubtful conflict with unavailing regrets and self-accusations which no earthly hand can subdue." |