ter for thy son. For she will turn away thy son from following me that he may rather serve strange gods; the wrath of the Lord will be enkindled and will quickly destroy thee."

He thought of the troubles of Samson from his Philistine wife, Delilah; he thought of Solomon and how he was led into idolatry by his pagan wives, and of many other examples of the evils arising from marriage by the people of God's chosen race with surrounding idolaters. Would Mary's faith be strong enough to resist the enticements and blandishments of a polished Roman who might be honestly and earnestly in love with her? For aught he knew she might, even now, be madly in love with this officer. People often put their infatuation above expediency, duty, and even God Himself. He hoped, by the memory of Eucharia and of Siro that his sister would remain true to the religion of her race. He hoped that Mary would allow no blind passion of the heart to lead her to take a step that would necessarily bring with it a lifetime of remorse. He prayed, as he rode his lame horse slowly along, that if it came to the worst, that worst might not be more than the breaking of the Mosaic law, and not the loss of her faith in the true God.

If the reports were true which Joseph of Arimathea had given him, she, being blindly infatuated with the Roman, might determine to do what thousands of women have done, and will continue to do marry the one without whom they imagine they could never be happy, risking present and future happiness for a handsome face, or a clever tongue, regardless of the ever repeating lessons. which point to numberless marital shipwrecks, and regardless of wounding nigh unto death those nearest and dearest to them.

With such anxious thoughts crowding in upon his mind, Lazarus urged his horse along the road. He had passed

through Bethel, or rather, as the gates were closed, he had passed around the walls of the town, and had taken the road leading directly to Jerusalem, when, in the still night air, he heard some distance ahead of him, the ringing of horses' hoofs on the hard metal road. Peering into the darkness he caught the reflection of the moon on the glitter of lances. A company of Roman horse were approaching.

Not wishing to be accosted or molested by the Imperial guards, whom he knew kept patrol around the Holy City at night with more or less regularity, he turned off the main road and went into the shadow of some heavy-foliaged fruit trees in an orchard near-by. He was not more than a hundred feet from the main thoroughfare, and, in the dark shade, could see distinctly without being

seen.

As they approached he saw there were about thirty soldiers in the company. They trotted along at an easy gait, for in the midst of them was a species of litter supported on two long poles fastened to the harness of the horses, one in front and one behind.

This carriage without wheels was evidently occupied, for Lazarus from his hiding place, saw the officer in charge ride up to its door, and bend low upon his horse, as if making enquiry as to the comfort of the one within.

"What midnight escapade is this?" thought Lazarus, wonderingly, as the troop passed on and out of sight. "Perhaps it is some noble Roman lady who prefers to travel in the cool of the night rather than in the hot sun; or perhaps it is some one being carried away by force."

Neither Pilate, nor his officers, if reports bruited about were true, were guiltless of spiriting away members of wealthy families, either for political reasons, or for hope of ransom, or even for

worse causes.

In this case, Lazarus perceived that if it were an abduction, it was a willing one, for as the cortege passed him, the watcher beneath the apple trees saw the lady thrust out her jewelled hand and wave it gracefully to the man on horseback, who bowed low in his saddle again, and dropped behind the escort he commanded.

The passing of the cavalcade did not create much impression on the mind of the young merchant. He was worried and anxious about his sister, and this filled his thoughts. Such things as he had just witnessed, he knew, were not uncommon even among some of his own people. Ever since he had been old enough to observe things, he had seen how the Roman occupation had been gradually changing Jewish thought and manners, and to some extent, even customs. Much of the old time reverence for parents and for religious practices was being lost sight of, or sneered at. Young Jews, who only a few years before, were boys with him going to the classes in the Temple, now mixed freely. with the Roman contingent of the Holy City's somewhat cosmopolitan population. This was especially the case with those youths whose families were wealthy. Riches-the key which unlocks the portals of the most exclusive circles in all times and all the world over-gained for them admission to the society of the officers of the Roman garrison, and to the gambling hall in Pilate's palace. In such places the young Jews learned all they should not, and easily forgot the training of their youth. Lazarus resumed his journey in a meditative mood, his mind often reverting to the great prophet. He wondered whether he, whom he had confessed to be divine a few days before, would change all this, when he should declare, as he certainly would, his power and divinity before the world. It was with

Lazarus as with every other believer in Jesus. He had at this time but a very imperfect comprehension of the spiritual kingdom Christ had begun to establish, but, with all the rest of the believers who were now gathering around the great teacher, he fully expected to see the kingdom of Israel restored.

When he finally arrived at Bethany much later than he had expected, owing to the misfortune happening his horse, he was surprised to see lights burning in almost every room of the castle. Some great commotion was taking place within. Tapers were being carried from room to room. Shadows passed hurriedly before the lattices. Some one was being searched for. Shouts and callings were heard, especially from the apartments allotted to the slaves and servants. Men were running to and fro in front of the house, as if uncertain what to do. All was commotion and confusion.

The traveler hastily dismounted, giving his horse to one of the servants whose attention he with difficulty attracted. Running to the impluvium, where, amid all this confusion, he thought he would most probably find his sisters, Martha and Mary, he was amazed to see the former on a pile of cushions, face downward, her head resting on her arms, with hair disheveled, and in an abandon of grief. Ever and anon she would rend the air with her shrieks, or tear her garments in the excess of her sorrow.

"Patience, my mistress; give not away under this affliction. Bear up, even for thy brother's sake," Lazarus heard the faithful Nigrita say to her. A little ancilla, kneeling beside her mistress, affectionately stroked her hand, in a mute attempt at imparting consolation. Martha's grief was beyond the comprehension of the little maid. The sorrowful sister had buried her face in the cushions, while violent sobs shook her frame.

For a moment or two, Lazarus, unnoticed, stood over the group. He then gently touched the ancilla on the shoulder. Instantly recognizing him, she cried:

"O mistress! mistress! be comforted. The master has come. Dry thine eyes. Lazarus is here. Wilt thou not arise and welcome him?"

At the words of the handmaid, the generally placid and prudent Martha looked up. Hastily arising from her prone position she rushed to her brother's arms.

"Oh! my brother! my Lazarus! may the Holy One be praised that thou art come! How shall I tell thee all! It is a sorrowful night for thee and for me. If our father—”

Her emotions seemed to choke her, and she remained too mournful for words.

"Speak, my sister; tell me all that hath come to pass," said Lazarus, gently laying his stricken sister's head on his shoulder. Even while encouraging

her, he felt a dread foreboding of evila verification of the Arimathean's suspicions.

"Gone! gone! she has fled! The soldiers-Pathira heard them-we were too late-she has gone! We have lost her. She is forever lost! lost! lost!" "Be calm, my Martha; who has gone?"

"Mary! She told me to-day thatoh! I thought she was making a pastime for us in thy absence that the commander of the garrison had offered her marriage! Oh! my sister! my sister!"

"Who is he?" "Decius."

(To be continued.)

W

ERE I asked what has impressed me most since coming to the Pacific Coast, I should be compelled to reply: "The rain!" Vancouver in British Columbia was the first rainy place I came to.

Unquestionably the most remarkable thing about Vancouver is the rain. Jupiter Pluvius is the tutelary deity. The air in September is raw and damp and cold, and the rain has that penetrating nature and copious quantity peculiar to the Puget Sound region. Before I started West I had read in a work on geology that there are places along the North Pacific that have more than 100 inches of rain annually. The figures were meaningless at the time, as I was not used to reckoning rainfall by inches; but now they were charged with significance. Surely this must be the place the meteorologist had in mind, I thought, but afterward I noticed that tourist guide books admitted only 64 or 65 inches, which was some comfort. When it starts to rain in Vancouver, no one is so foolish as to expect that it

"will clear off after a little." It keeps at it with a drenching downpour for hours, often days, without intermission, and in the rainy season for weeks and months.

The inhabitants have a damp, clammy, drabbled appearance. I saw no pretty or stylishly dressed women, nor any that were ambitious. The rain and dampness soak the ambition out of them.

I left Vancouver as soon as I could. The next place I halted for any length of time was at Portland, Oregon. Here, too, the weather department makes a specialty of rain. The average number of rainy days annually I learned to be 165, and one year the record was 188; but the air is not raw and cold, as in Vancouver. During the first few weeks of my stay I used to wonder why people who could afford to move away did not pack up and go. I did not understand how they could consent to live in deluge or drizzle, so long as there remained unoccupied areas to be had elsewhere. Yet it could not be a lack of means that held them, for I saw no signs