CHAPTER XXIV.
WHEN Lazarus ceased speaking, morning, striking right and left with her flaming wand of truth, lighting up each secret corner of the world, burst in through the open casement, and forced herself in ardent streams of light beneath the doors and through every crevice of the house in Bethany.
She lit up faces weary with their vigil, worn with the excitement of this wondrous narrative and their eagerness to grasp the full purpose of this revelation.
When the Magdalene had finished writing, she fell upon her knees in prayer. None knew what she prayed for, whether in appeal, or thankfulness, but Lazarus looking at her, his gaze softened and a great resolve showed in his eyes.
Then, one by one, they rose from their posture on the ground, to go and bathe and set about the duties of the day. But Martha was less restless and solicitous.
Lazarus's tale had roused her interest; nay, more, had filled her with a vague dread and wondering that one so great as Jesus could condescend to sup with them that night; and, in a moment, as one sees things in a flash, it came to her how futile must every effort be to make things worthy of such a guest. Then, while her sister marvelled at her quiet
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