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rowful night in Gethsemane ; ot the whip
ping, of the spitting upon Him; of the
crown of thorns; of His fainting under
the cross, and then of the terrible cruci
fixion.
Then she hastened on to the Sunday
morning when the women came through
the blooming garden walks without noti
cing the flowers, but went straight to the
tomb of Jesus, weeping, and there they
saw two angels, but not the body of Jesus,
and after they turned back one ot the wo
men met Jesus, and He said to her,
“Mary!”
“ Just think of it,” said the little girl;
“He called my name, ‘Mary,’ as if He
spoke to me now. Then the poor woman
was so glad she did not know what to do
with herself, and she ran and told all the
other disciples.”
She told her how He appeared to two
of His disciples on their way to Emmaus,
and how their “hearts burned” while He
talked with them, although they did not
know who He was.
She told her how lie stood by the sea
of Galilee, when the morning breezes were
curling the water into blue waves; and
how lie sat down with the disciples to
their breakfast of broiled fish ; and how
sweetly He talked to Peter, just as if Pe
ter had never denied Him ; and how at
last He led His disciples to the Mount of
Olives, and after raising His hands and
blessing them, floated up among the an
gels to heaven ; and how He now sits up
on the right hand of the Father to plead
for us—“for all of us, Ester,” the child
said; “for you and for me.”
The little Jewess listened to her, not
without tears, and when she had finished
Ester said :
“That sounds as if it were all true.”
“It is all true,” said Mary earnestly.
"When the children were parting, Mary
said: “My name is Mary Mason, and we
live on the piazza d’Espagna. Now tell
me all your name, and where you live.”
“My name is Ester Beniamino. I live
in the Ghetto. It is an ugly, dirty place,”
the child added in a tone of mortification.
“Never mind that,” said Mary kindly,
“you must come and see me. I have a
nice room, where we can play all by our
selves.”
“Yes,” said Ester, “I have a nice room,
too, but outside of the house all is filthy,
so filthy. I know nohody; I have no
playmates.”
Mr. and Mrs. Mason seemed as much
impressed with the grandfather as Mary
was with Ester. They invited him to
visit them. He thanked them gravely
and politely.
BURKE’S WEEKLY.
When the Jew and his granddaughter
had reached their home in the Ghetto,
the little girl said:
“ Grandfather, Mary says the Christ has
already come; do you think so ?
The old man shook his head sadly and
replied:
“I cannot say, my child- It may be
even so. It is a question that has per
plexed me much. Our people have wait
ed for Him long in vain.”
Mr. and Mrs. Mason spent the winter
in Kome. The old Jew often brought his
granddaughter to see Mary. He brought
her and called again at the appointed
hour to take her home. Only twice could
he be prevailed upon to stop and make a
short visit.
One night in the early spring, Mr. Ma
son was aroused in the middle of the
night. Signor Beniamino had sent for
him. He followed the messenger through
the dark streets. At length they came
to the Jews’ quarter —dirty, squalid, mis
erable. Stumbling over some broken
pieces of columns, scattered amidst hay
and dirt, they reached a low door-way.
The guide lighted a little coiled wax ta
per, produced a key, unlocked the door,
and entered a gloomy passage. Thence,
they ascended to the second story, or, as
they say in Rome, to the first piano. At
a tap from the guide, the second door was
then unbarred, and after passing through
an ante-room, a damask curtain was
drawn aside, which revealed a chamber
luxuriously fitted up.
On a low couch lay the old man breath
ing laboriously. The fine white linen and
lace trimmings of the pillow cases made
his face look more swarthy and death
like. The hair, like silver, brushed back
from the brow, fell in half curls upon the
pillows. The dark eyes were burning
like lamps, in the stillness.
On the floor beside the couch Ester was
prostrate. With brow pressed upon the
cold marble, she lay in agony, in the still
agony of a woman.
As Mr. Mason approached, the old man
looked up with satisfaction, and said with
difficulty:
“ I am sorry to disturb you at this in
convenient hour, but it was unavoidable.
I am about to be gathered to my fathers.
My last earthly concern, that poor child,
I wish to consign to your care, because I
desire that she shall be educated in your
faith. I would save her from the doubts
and uncertainty that have tormented me.
I leave her money enough,—more than
enough. I entrust that, with her, to you.
In the memorandum book that lies upon
that little stand you will find full direc
tions. My strength fails me—”
The sorrow of the child here burst into
passionate and irrepressible sobs.
Mr. Mason, with a broken voice, assured
him that the charge should be consider
ed sacred, and that he should consider
Ester even as his own daughter.
The old man replied :
“It is well; you are honorable and
just.”
Then, looking down at the sobbing
child, his own bosom heaved convulsively.
For a few moments he was silent. A
film passed over the bright eyes—“the
windows were darkened,” —his lips mur
mured, “Though Thou slay me, yet will
I trust in Thee,” —and all was hushed, all
but the sobs of the child.
Struck at length by the silence, Ester
sprang to her feet, and looking into the
face of the dead, exclaimed, passionately:
“No, no! bring him to life!” and fell
fainting into the arms of the nurse.
Mr. Mason took her gently from the
nurse, and bore her into another room.
% >jc
It was an evening in the first of June.
The purple mountains leaned against the
golden sky. The Eternal City was bath
ed in an atmosphere of rose. Two little
girls—the one in white, the other in deep
mourning—knelt beside a grave, and laid
upon it a cross and a crown of flowers.
As they arose, the child in black burst
into a passion of tears, and exclaimed:
“I shall never see his grave again—not
even his grave.”
The other responded in a soft and ear
nest voice :
“T>, yes, Ester, you and I will come
back from Virginia when we are grown;
we will come back and put flowers on his
grave again, and while we are gone, God
will take care of it.”
My “ Good for Nothing.”
What are you good for, my brave little man ’■
Answer that question for me, if you can—
You with your fingers as white as a nun.
You, with your ringlets as bright as the sun.
All the day long with your busy contriving,
Into all mischief and fun you are driving;
See if your wise little noddle can tell
What you are good for—now ponder it well.
Over the carpet the dear little feet
Came with a patter to climb on my scat;
Two merry eyes, full of frolic and glee,
Under their lashes looked up unto me;
Two little hands pressing soft on my face,
Drew me down close in a loving embrace;
Two rosy lips gave the answer so true—
“ Good to love you, mamma! good to love you.
♦♦♦
There is nothing purer than hon
est} r ; nothing sweeter than charity; no
thing warmer than love; nothing richer
than wisdom; nothing brighter than vir
tue ; and nothing more steadfast than
faith. These, united in one mind, foim
the purest, sweetest, warmest, brightest
and most steadfast happiness. — iV/hs.