Part 2 — THE WIDOW OF NAIN.

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BY JOSEPH R. CHANDLER.

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[SEE ENGRAVING.]

How little can we of this latitude, or rather of this country, for latitude seems not to rule in all cases with regard to temperature; on one side of a continent, that parallel which gives agreeable winters and dry, healthful summers, is marked on the other side with cold, snowy winters and most unhealthful summers; what the variant circumstances are which produce this difference it is not easy to tell; the difference does exist, and ingenious theories have been constructed to suit those results; we say then again, how little can we of this latitude, or this country, judge of the enjoyments which others at a distance from us, but with the same shadows, have in the dry coolness of their evenings, or lassitude to which they are subject by the peculiar warmth which prevails during most of their summer days. The habits and customs among us are soon made conformable to the circumstances of our climate; though it must be confessed that people will always pertinaciously insist on a warm day on the first of May, and a stinging cold one on the 25th of December, while actual experience has shown that the thin floral garb adopted for the first has often led to consumption, and the winter furs and the great Yule-log that have distinguished the latter, have been considered rather seasonable than pleasant. So much for a poetical conformity, but in the every-day business of life things are better disposed of; people do not think in this country of sitting under their own vine till mid-summer, and then they look out for spiders; and as to their fig-trees, nobody gets under them unless it be the house-cat for a summer siesta. While eastward of the shores of the Mediterranean, people stretch themselves out upon the house-top for a comfortable night’s sleep, and spend a warm summer’s day beneath the cording shadow of the fig or the olive, and make life itself a blessing, not the means of enjoyment, but enjoyment itself; life and its accidents, the gratification of simple appetites—eating, drinking, and sleeping. Leaving to others the profitless toils that accumulate heaps of gold, only a portion of which can ever be used, and that portion will buy little more than what may be had and enjoyed without it. In this country we retreat away from an oppressive heat or a stinging cold, and make the absence of either an excuse for our merriment. In that other land to which we have referred, positive enjoyment is had in the uses of the evening air, and the contemplation of the heavenly hosts. Stars and planets twinkling in the clear blue ether above, not larger than seen from this continent, but far, far more intensely brilliant in the atmosphere, which allows of little refraction, and whose purity makes an upward gaze like the contemplation of some sanctified enclosure.

Sitting on a bank that faced westward were observable two human figures in the closing twilight of an autumn day. They were gazing out upon the gorgeous west, and marking the successful struggles of the starry host to obtain visibility above. In all the rich flush that marked the pathway of the sun, and hung a glory around his place of exit, only one light had strength enough to be visible; and so pure was the atmosphere, that when the flush in the heavens retired, the splendid planet Venus seemed a delicate crescent—a diminutive moon, sinking downward to the western waters.

“How beautiful, dear Reuben,” said the young female, as she pressed closely the hand of her companion; “how beautiful the heavens above us are to-night. It seems as if a peculiar brilliancy were observable; and I hope it is not sinful for me to say that the glorious array of stars seems to have communicated to my bosom something of their own transparent light; an unusual serenity seems to descend from them to me, and I feel now as if I owed to them sensations of inexpressible delight—quiet, gentle, but full. Whence is this, Reuben?”

“May you not, my dear Miriam, have mistaken a cause for an effect? Is it not the quiet, peaceful delight of your heart that makes all outward objects more lovely to you? And, as the stars are the most brilliant and the most distant objects at the present moment, your feelings have connected themselves with those ministers of Him, and allowed that deep, mysterious connection of the planetary world with ours to work upon your imagination, as if the stars had a direct influence upon your condition.”

“Perhaps so; but I alluded to my feelings and not my condition. How beautifully did our Prophet King refer his own elevated sensations to the planetary world, ‘The moon and the stars which Thou hast ordained.’”

“True, true, my dearest Miriam; but you will recollect that while he made himself, and man generally, small in his contemplation of the heavens, it was not in comparison with them, it was comparing or contrasting man with Him who garnished the heavens, and wrote ‘all our members in a book.’ But are not your feelings, like mine, elevated with a hope, nay, with almost a certainty, that the elders will persuade my mother that the rights of our family can be retained, even though I marry you, or rather that the argument against our union was as unsustained by our laws as the attempt to give you to Salathiel was a violation of your affection and my rights.”

“I know not but that may be the case. I feel it, Reuben, warmly at my heart. Let me say it without violating the delicacy of a maiden’s feelings, that such was my love for you, that even the alternative to which I consented, though of no moment, gave me a severe pang.”

“What was that alternative?” asked the young man, with importunity.

“Simply, that if you should not live to marry me, then Salathiel might take me to wife.”

“I would haunt him with terrible bodings,” said Reuben, “even as Samuel frightened the falling Saul.”

“And I, dear Reuben,” said the maiden, with a smile, “should, I suppose, be the Witch of Endor to call up your wandering and jealous spirit.”

“And it is settled, then,” said Reuben, “and you are to be mine with the consent of our families. And the next new moon shall see us one.”

“It shall be thus if your mother consents. I have none to consent or refuse, save my aunt. But let it not wound your feeling or excite suspicion in your mind, Reuben, that I ask you not to cherish feelings of unkindness against Salathiel. He is my kinsman and my early friend.”

“Has he not sought to supplant me in your possession?”

“Have you not supplanted him in my heart? Is it so much, my dear Reuben, for you to fear to lose me, and is it nothing for him to see me given to another?”

“He tried for your possessions, Miriam, for your wealth only.”

“Does not my wealth, little as it is, go with my hand—and why may not he have designs honorable as well as others?”

“Because he would not leave it to your decision, to the arbitration of your affections. He could not love you and be willing to do violence to your love.”

“May he not, dear Reuben, say the same of you?”

“Of me! Miriam, you plead the cause of Salathiel. You wish the alternative—you would be free.”

“Reuben, you may wound my pride by your injustice, but you cannot make me cease to love you. You may hereafter learn that woman may esteem a man for his virtues without loving him as a husband; and that for me to wish that you were less unkind to Salathiel, is no evidence that I love you less. I have heard within a few weeks such lessons of forgiveness, such preaching of high virtues—high, though always practical—that I desire to conform in some measure to them, and to have him whom I love and respect, augment my affection, not by any new love on his part, but by a new exhibition of greatness of mind. Reuben, though protracted maidenhood is a reproach in Israel, be assured that my love is stronger than death—as I feel that your jealousy is more cruel than the grave.”

“I will not be jealous. I will forget what I have deemed the wrongs of Salathiel. I will learn of you to respect myself. But, Miriam, what teaching is that to which you allude—what lessons of forgiveness have you received, and from whom? Is not the law of Moses sufficient for the daughters of Israel?”

“I suppose the laws of Moses are not sufficient, else why have kings and prophets written and preached? But you know that several times within a year the teacher from Nazareth hath been in the synagogues of Nain, and has, indeed, spoken in the houses of our relatives, whither he hath come and broken bread.”

“I have heard of his visits, and that his teaching had been eminently attractive—how instructive,” continued Reuben, with a sneer, “how instructive may be inferred from the proportion of women among his immediate followers.”

“There were more women than men, undoubtedly, at his household instruction, because more women had leisure to listen. But let me tell the truth, Reuben. There are many women among his followers, for he speaks to the heart of woman. He recognizes woman as the equal of man in the necessity for salvation, and he appeals to her affections, her experience, her wrongs and her neglect. What other prophet has come among us, that has thought it needful to recognize even his descent from woman, while He of Nazareth soothes our sorrows, elevates our hopes, and sanctifies our human relations? As I listened of late to him when he reproved but encouraged our sex, my heart said ‘this teacher’s doctrines may save man,’ but how they elevate and purify woman. And then the lessons of love, of forbearance, of forgiveness, that he inculcates, belong to what I have deemed woman’s nature and man’s necessity.”

“You have followed the teacher, then, Miriam?”

“He is a prophet, Reuben, and he attests his divine mission by miracles. He has healed the sick, he has cured the lame, and made the blind see and the deaf hear.”

“Has he raised the dead, as did the bones of Elisha?”

“I have heard that he has wrought that miracle, but do not know it, though I have such faith in his mission as to believe he might.”

“If he would raise me from the dead when I come to die, I would have faith too!”

“I should think, Reuben, that this act would be the consequence rather than the cause of faith. Though many others believed, in Jerusalem, as my Cousin Jacob says, in consequence of the restoration of blind Bartemus to his sight, yet the Master said, ‘Thy faith hath made thee whole!’”

“I have, nevertheless, no faith in this teacher as a prophet—why, whose son is he, Miriam?”

“He is of the house of David, Reuben, and even though his parents are poor, are they much poorer than David’s parents? May there not be something in the great truths which he teaches, that is not dependent upon the parentage of the teacher?”

“These things are important, Miriam, I confess, and we will confer of them together, but not now. We are about to part, let us mark the separation by a recurrence to a subject on which we both agree. The next new moon sees us united, and my joy at the anticipation is doubled by the belief that you share with me in the pleasure.”

Miriam pressed the hand of her lover as they rose to descend the hill; and as they entered the gate of Nain, the rising moon poured its strong light through the gorges of the mountain, the pair wended their way through the broken streets of the city to the residence of Miriam, blessed in their mutual affection, and refreshed by the dry, cool breeze of evening, which had fanned them on the elevated seat which they had just left.

Reuben turned toward home with a resolution to discuss the doctrine which he had heard imputed to the new teacher. Miriam, with woman’s humility, “kept all these things and pondered them in her heart.”

Miriam and Reuben met daily as espoused people; and frequent allusions were made to the doctrines of the teacher; and the pride of a Hebrew man was a little touched at the evidences of the elevating effect of a doctrine upon women, which Miriam’s language and conduct presented. Yet Reuben loved her too well to regret any circumstance which pleased and benefited Miriam. The customs of the country were too well fixed to lead him to fear the assumption of any inappropriate position by his future wife; indeed, it is believed that men do not begin to grow jealous of the authority of women until after marriage.

“I do not find in the teaching of the new master,” said Reuben, one day as they were conversing on the subject now so important to her, and so generally interesting to him, “I do not discover any denunciations of our creed or our system and form of worship—why may not his doctrines prevail without danger to the Hierarchy?”

“I cannot guess of that, Reuben; but certainly the teacher, while he refers to particular virtues and special sins, seems to desire a purification of the motives. He has conformed to all the requirements of our religion, but seems at times to be above it. I wish I understood him better. And yet how simple, how comprehensible are all his teachings. Why should I seek to know more? Why should I desire aught but that which shall make me better—happier—more hopeful? How the poor, the afflicted in body and in mind seek him out, and sit in joy at his teaching.”

“Miriam, I will hear him—I will hear him soon,” said Reuben.

It was only a few days before the new moon that Miriam had from the widow mother of Reuben an intimation that her only son and heir was prostrated by sudden and very severe sickness. The young woman hastened across the town to be in attendance upon Reuben, and to cheer him into health by her presence. But when she reached the house, she learned rather by the appearance than the words of the widow, that the sickness of Reuben was not of a kind to yield to such remedies as she had to offer.

The attention of Miriam to Reuben was all that her feelings would permit her to give. She sat by his side and bathed his temples, and moistened his feverish hands, and listened with painful satisfaction to his unconscious utterance of her name.

On the seventh day of Reuben’s sickness all awaited the crisis, and a few hours before sunset he awakened from a protracted sleep, and turned his eyes on the hopeful countenance of Miriam. The members of the family present saw with inexpressible pleasure that his consciousness had returned, and they hoped.

But the physician pronounced against them. It was but a restoration of mental light before the darkness of death should set in.

“Miriam,” said Reuben, “let me speak to thee alone one moment”—and the family retired.

“I am dying, and the truths which you announced to me as we sat upon the hill-side some nights since—truths which the new teacher uttered, come home with strange distinctness to my heart. But is he, as his disciples would have us believe—is he the Messiah?”

“Do you believe it, dear Reuben?”

“I do not know, but I forgive all who have injured me, and I ask pardon of all whom I have injured.”

“Surely that is the spirit of the Master’s teaching, Reuben, and what can you more.”

“But, oh, Miriam, where are the blessings which I had promised myself in thy love? Where the years of happiness in thy possession—when thou shouldst have been only mine?”

“Are these regrets, my beloved, suited to one who leans upon the verge of the grave? Oh, look forward, Reuben, and look upward. In heaven we can meet again—meet without fear of separation, without doubt of love.”

“But in heaven, where, oh, where shalt thou be, Miriam?”

“Reuben, dear Reuben?”

“Nay, my beloved, let me show my affection for you and my sense of duty to God at this last moment. I know, my Miriam, that by the customs of our people you should have been the wife of Salathiel, and I feel that next to me, (I do your love no injustice, my betrothed,) next to me, Salathiel has your affection. Hear me out. When I am gone, it must be your duty. Oh, then, let it be your pleasure to receive him. Who better than he can be your protector? He is your nearest kinsman, and the laws and customs of our people are in his favor—promise me.”

“Reuben, shall I call in your mother?”

Reuben turned his eyes again toward the west, and the sun was sinking with all his evening glory into the great sea. A gentle breeze swept into the window, and blew the hair of the kneeling maid upon the pale face of her lover.

“Turn my face, Miriam, to the east, let me pray thitherward. Let me hold you thus, ‘though the sorrows of death compass me about⁠—’”

When the widowed mother entered the room the dead form of her son was resting in the arms of the unconscious Miriam.

Stricken with grief, and with a sense of her utter loneliness, the widow lifted up her voice and wept.

Miriam was conveyed away—to be purified from the legal uncleanness that results from contact with the dead.

It was the morning of the third day from the death of Reuben, and Miriam was sitting lonely in her chamber.

“And this,” said she, as she looked forth from her darkened room, “this was the day appointed for our marriage; and to-day they will take my beloved and carry him forth from the city, and lay him in the earth with his fathers; and his beautiful form shall moulder into the dust, and the worms shall feed sweetly on him. Yes, he shall return to the dust again, and his spirit to God who gave it.”

“Oh, Father,” said the anguished maiden, as she kneeled with folded hands and upturned, streaming eyes, “oh, Father, receive his spirit!” And she poured out her soul in prayer for the dead, “after the custom that is among the Jews, even unto this day.”

Shortly afterward the relatives of Miriam came in to comfort her before they went to assist in the funeral of Reuben. They respected her grief too much to make open allusion to a subject which was occupying their minds.

One of the elders of the family, before going out, took aside the afflicted girl and attempted to console her with those cold arguments that interest suggests, and a want of respect for woman’s position warrants.

“Still, Miriam,” continued the old man, after disregarding her requests to be left alone, “still the possessions of your father’s family remain with you; and these may now, as they ought to have been before, be, with you, the property of our Cousin Salathiel.”

“Nay, my Uncle Achan, you trouble me, indeed; spare me that, let the possessions of our house go whither you list, to yourself or to Salathiel, but let me remain as I am. Give me peace—give me peace and time for my tears, and I will endure the reproach of maiden-widowhood, and let my name be lost from the family of our fathers.”

Achan and his friends departed to meet at the house of the widow, and to be of the company of those who should assist in the funeral of her son.

Miriam sat in her chamber, looking forth from the closed lattice to mark the first approach of the funeral-train which would pass her aunt’s dwelling on its way to the burying-place that lay beyond the walls of the city.

The solemn train at length approached, and the cold, insensible form of her lover lay upon a bier, wrapped round with grave-clothes, and borne forth by men.

As she gazed down upon the appalling sight, her heart seemed ready to burst with the grief that had no utterance, and she fell insensible to the floor.

When Miriam opened her eyes, they rested upon the forms of her aunt and of Salathiel bending over her.

“Was this well, Salathiel? Could you not have spared me one day for grief, must my affections for another be outraged, even in the presence of his passing remains?”

“Miriam, my cousin,” said Salathiel, “I came in hither only to assist your aunt. No selfish feeling brought me into your presence. I know where your affections are, I know how deep-seated is your grief. Let me rather, my Miriam, be to you a means of consolation, than an occasion of offence, since my love to your person is less than my sympathy in your grief.”

Miriam placed her hand in that of Salathiel, and a gentle pressure signified her appreciation of his feelings—and such a sign, at such a moment, too, told him how hopeless would be his love. He obeyed the sign.

“The funeral has passed on,” said she.

“It is now near the gate of the city,” said Salathiel.

“We shall see it once more,” said Miriam, “as it ascends the hill that overlooks the valley of tombs.”

“What is that faith, Miriam,” asked her aunt, “of which you spoke to me yesterday?”

“It is but confidence in the promises and power of the teacher.”

“Confidence that he will grant your wishes?”

“Yes, if they be right, or that if he grant them not, then confidence that the refusal is best.”

“Have you that confidence, Miriam?”

“Oh aunt, oh my mother, do not tempt me. I would believe; my heart tells me that miracles such as his, could only be performed to attest a momentous truth. But do not tempt me, the body of Reuben is scarcely passed, in him my heart, my affections, my hope were centered—and he is taken from me. Why? is it good for me to be afflicted?”

“Could the Master have saved his life, my child?”

“Did he not yesterday save the life of the Centurion’s servant at Capernaum,” answered Salathiel, struck with the coincidence of the woman’s question with the recent fact.

“Did you ask him, Miriam?”

“I saw him not, and if I had seen him, what am I to him?”

“If you had asked him, might he not have done it?”

“I believe, aunt; I believe, Salathiel, that he could have saved the life of Reuben.”

“Would he not, then, raise him now?”

“I do believe he could—I have faith in his power. But I would not be presumptuous. Yet, yet—oh, that Reuben might be restored to me?”

“Amen!” said Salathiel, “Amen!” and the deep tone of voice, and the upward turn of his eyes, told how truly his heart responded to the prayer of his cousin.

Two hearts were then united in solemn petition. There was faith, but none thought of hope.

After a few minutes of solemn silence, the eyes of Miriam were turned mournfully, and yet eagerly, toward the hill beyond the city’s wall.

“They are passing upward,” said Deborah to her; “the procession moves toward the brow of the hill, but, alas! the dust of the road conceals the train.”

They all looked forth to follow with their eyes as long as possible the mournful procession.

“But what is there?” exclaimed Deborah, pointing to a column of dust which denoted a crowd of people descending the hill toward the funeral.

“The procession has passed,” said Miriam.

“Both parties have stopped,” exclaimed Deborah.

Salathiel looked earnestly out and said, in a low voice, but with much feeling, “Do the Romans come to insult us even when we bury our dead? We are a conquered people, but we are not slaves.”

“Hush!” said Miriam, “hush, my brother! let us not at this moment forget the teaching of the Master.”

Salathiel leaned forward and kissed the brow of Miriam.

“I thank you, I thank you, Miriam, for the monition, and I bless you for the term, brother; henceforth, my sister, know me for such. But let me go forth to learn what hath turned our people from their sepulchral rites.”

Salathiel went forth, and Miriam, kneeling, buried her face in the lap of her aunt, and poured out her soul in prayer—deep, anguished, heart-engendered, heart-and-heaven-moving prayer.

It was some time before the low voice of Miriam ceased. But her feelings had been overwrought, and at length she lay silent yet suffering, with her head still on Deborah’s knees.

The quiet of the street and even of the chamber was at length disturbed by the confused footfall of a multitude who seemed to press onward with few words, and those uttered in a subdued tone. The multitude at length paused in front of the dwelling of Miriam, and the opening of the front door intimated that the procession of the people had some connection with the inmates of the house.

The door of Miriam’s chamber at length opened, and Salathiel stood before the two women pale and agitated.

“My sister, praise the Lord! A miracle has been wrought.”

The agitated maiden shrunk into the arms of her aunt as she gazed toward Salathiel.

“What,” exclaimed the aunt, “what is it, Salathiel? Speak?”

“Reuben—”

“Reuben!” exclaimed Miriam.

“Reuben lives!”

“Where—where is he?”

“He has been borne back to the house of his mother.”

“How has this been wrought?” asked Deborah.

“There is our Cousin Asher, who was a witness of the whole. Shall he come in and tell you all?”

Asher was admitted with one or two others of the family, and briefly stated the facts.

“The rear of the very long procession that followed the corpse of Reuben had scarcely left the gate of the city, when I, who was assisting to bear the bier upon which rested the beloved remains, discovered a vast crowd of people coming down the hill. I soon, however, perceived that there was no intention on the part of the approaching mass to offer any offence or discourtesy to the funeral party; and, indeed, the expressions of grief by our widowed and bereaved kinswoman were so loud, that it was difficult to hear whether any word was uttered by the descending party. I have never seen a Hebrew woman so distressed; and though few have had such cause for grief, few have been more deeply wounded, yet I had hoped that she would have been able to repress her feelings. But as we grew nearer the grave, her lamentations were increased, and it was heart-rending to hear her exclamations. The whole procession seemed to have lost their own sense of bereavement in the presence of one the utterance of whose anguish was so impressive. To me it seemed almost an arraignment of Providence by our kinswoman. I cannot tell you how every one was affected; each seemed to wish silently but heartily that some event might occur to soothe the sorrows of the widow.

“At length the descending party, which was very large, met our procession; and almost every member of that company manifested deep sympathy for the suffering of the chief mourner. In a moment the principal of the company stepped forward and took our kinswoman by the hand, and whispered to her words of comfort. What they were I could not hear, but the effect was instantaneous—the clamor of grief was hushed—and our kinswoman walked quietly on, gazing with a sort of rapt awe upon the comforter, whose countenance though marked with sympathy for her suffering was yet majestic and dignified.

“The mother’s eyes for a moment wandered from the face of the visiter, and fell upon the form of her son stretched out before her, and again her agony found vent—again the mother was heard, again the mountain seemed to echo with her lamentation.

“He who was walking at her side did not rebuke the mourner, but a new and more intent feeling of compassion was evident in his look and manner, and taking the hand of the afflicted one, he said in a tone of deep consolation, ‘Weep not.’

“Almost immediately afterward he left the widow standing where she was, and approaching us ‘came and touched the bier,’ and we who were carrying it stopped; for there was a sort of authority in the air and movement of this person, or let me say the effect rather than the assumption of authority. When the eyes of all were turned toward the dead body, and toward him that stood by it, the person with a mild tone, with no ceremony, with a simple utterance of the words, said,

“ ‘Young man, I say unto thee, Arise!’ ”

“And Reuben, dear Asher, Reuben!” exclaimed Miriam.

“And Reuben sat up on the bier, and began to speak of the sensations which crowded upon him.

“But He who had restored him to life, seemed to comprehend that the mother’s feelings should be first consulted, her rights first respected, and so ‘He delivered him to his mother.’”

“And he lives now?”

“Yes now, and with his mother. But what an awe came upon those who witnessed that august scene. There was no shouting at the success of the effort, no cheering that human life had been restored. But with an overpowering sense of divine visitation, the people, in devout fear, kneeled, and ‘glorified God,’ saying ‘a prophet has risen up among us.’”

It was not deemed safe to the convalescent Reuben that Miriam should visit him immediately. His life not his health had been restored. And the effect of a too early interview, might be too much for both. A few days afterward Salathiel conducted Miriam to the house of Reuben, and as they proceeded thither he cautioned her against the indulgence of too much feeling, lest her own frame should yield. Leading her to the door of the chamber, the young man felt that his presence would be too much of a restraint, so knocking lightly he heard a voice from within bidding them enter, and he turned and went to the mother in another part of the house.

What was said by the young lovers, separated as they had been by death, and thus restored this side the grave, we shall not now repeat. It was a sublime colloquy, for it included the experience of a heart in which hope had contended against hope—and the awful experience of a soul that had been freed from the trammels of flesh. But it was still Reuben and Miriam. Death had not destroyed the identity, for the same love that had animated them in his former life was felt and reciprocated now.

“I did fear, Reuben; indeed, for a moment I feared, when I heard of your restoration, that the love which had been a part of our lives, would have been quenched in you by death, or sublimated beyond the uses and comprehension of earth.”

“Oh, Miriam love is the immortal part of our affections—it is the soul of the mind—it is stronger than death—and that which is pure and rightly placed on earth is indestructible, and thousands of years, my beloved, passed in separation would work no change. We should at our renewed communion find the same love that had existed in past centuries in full and satisfactory operation. You know that the seeds which our travelers bring from the mummies of Egypt are as fruitful as those which are sown from the last year’s harvest, so, my beloved one, is the love that is worthy the soul’s cherishing.”

“But, Reuben, has it struck you that you have received the testimony which you almost impiously challenged as a ground of faith?”

“It has, it has, and while I have been struck with shame at the impiety of such a thought, I have yielded the faith which I promised, and am henceforth a follower of the teachings of Him of Nazareth.”

“Oh, my prayers, dear Reuben⁠—”

“They were pure, and effective to your good, Miriam, undoubtedly, but it was from compassion for my widowed, childless mother that the miracle was wrought.”

“Who shall tell the motives of Him that can work miracles? What we call ends, dear Reuben, may be means with him, and the babe that is sent in answer to the Hebrew mother’s prayer, may be the saviour or the destroyer of his people.”

Salathiel then knocked for admittance. He entered and kissing both of his cousins he wept with joy—“And this, this is the consummation of my highest earthly wish,” said he.

“Is it indeed? Can you rejoice, Salathiel, that I am come to take Miriam from you; is it indeed thus, my cousin?”

“I have loved Miriam as dearly as you could love her, Reuben. I will yield in that to none. I will not affect to conceal that. But the miracle that has raised you to life has shown me that I have a higher duty to perform, a more glorious mission to fulfill. Be yours, my cousin, the enjoyment of domestic love and peace and happiness, which virtue ensures; and let your home and your lives illustrate the power of the Master’s doctrine to purify and multiply home affections. Henceforth, if permitted, I will sit at the feet of the teacher and learn; and when sent I will go, and offer his doctrines and my life for the good of our people.”

The new moon had again come, and the house of the aunt of Miriam was filled with her kinspeople, who had come to the marriage; and when the feast was over, and parties had formed in different rooms, and some, with the bride and bridegroom, were on the housetop enjoying the delightful air of evening, as it swept down the hills loaded with the scents of roses and acacia, some drew the attention of the party to the brilliancy of the slender moon in the west, and the stars that were scattered through the heavens.

“It is a good omen,” said Asher, “when the planet that is so near the moon assumes with her the crescent shape at a marriage, or when at this season the Pleiads and Orion are peculiarly brilliant.”

The newly married ones looked up smilingly toward the heavens, as if they recognized the doctrine of stellar influences.

Salathiel, who had been looking upon the pair with deep interest, then stepped forward, and taking a hand of each, he said, “My cousins, I am called away—not again to mingle in this delightful scene—called to a higher duty; pray that it may be as delightful—it cannot be more dangerous. Keep the faith—mark the signs of the times in the conduct of man and in the instigations of your passions, but look not to the stars for your instruction. Oh, my beloved one,” and he stooped and kissed the lips of Miriam, “oh, my dear brother,” and he pressed his lips to the forehead of her husband; “oh, Reuben and Miriam, ‘seek Him that maketh the Seven Stars and Orion, and turneth the shadow of death into morning, and maketh the day dark with night,’—the Lord is his name.”