He had written to his brother and begged release, but no word of release had come, and he was growing old and his health had failed under the stress of work and the agony of his self-control, “the constant anguish of patience.”

But the letter in his pocket was of no avail now, Prudence had loved him only as a brother all these long years of his suspense and hope and waiting; that friend whose sudden death had moved her so had been in her thoughts, and he was only her dear friend and—­Jerome’s brother.

It is no wonder that the bent shoulders drooped lower and that the slouched hat was drawn over a face that fain would have hidden itself.  Prudence, his sister Prudence, was speaking to him and he had not heard a word.  How that young fellow in front was rattling on and laughing as though hearts never ached or broke with aching, and now he was daring Marjorie to a race, and the fleet-footed girl was in full chase, and the two who had run their race nearly a quarter of a century before walked on slowly and seriously with more to think about and bear than they could find words for.

“I found comfort in that.  Shall I tell you?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, “if you can make me understand.”

“I think you will understand, but I shall not make you; I shall speak slowly, for I want to tell you all I thought.  The Lord was dead; he had been crucified and laid away within the sepulchre three days since, and they who had so loved him and so trusted in his promises were broken-hearted because of his death.  Our Christ has never been dead to us, John; think what it must have been to them to know him dead.  ’Let not your heart be troubled’ he said; but their hearts were troubled, and he knew it; he knew how John’s heart was rent, and how he was sorrowing with the mother he had taken into his own home; he knew how Peter had wept his bitter tears, how Martha and Mary and Lazarus were grieving for him, how all were watching, waiting, hoping and yet hardly daring to hope,—­oh, how little our griefs seem to us beside such grief as theirs!  And the third day since he had been taken from them.  Did they expect again to hear his footfall or his voice?  He could see, all this time, the hands outstretched in prayer, he could hear their cries, he could feel the beating of every heart, and yet how slowly he was going forth to meet them.  How could he stay his feet?  Were not Peter and John running towards him?  Was not Mary on her way to him?  And yet he did not hasten; something must first be done, such little things; the linen clothes must be laid aside and the napkin that had been about his head must be wrapped together in a place by itself.  Such a little thing to think of, such a little thing to do, before he could go forth to meet them!  Was it necessary that the napkin should be wrapped together in a place by itself?  As necessary as that their terrible suspense should be ended?  As necessary as that Peter and John and Martha and