work, such as it was. The child had always done well, but stronger arms could of course do better, and everything was soon in special dress. Then Pathema had a comforting talk with the grandfather and with his faithful little servant-maid, ending by telling her a charming tale of a Forest Nymph. Before leaving she placed a silver coin in the old man's trembling hand; and as she departed, he could only say, "God bless thee," while the child clung to her sympathetic hand for some distance along the street.

Thus Pathema, accompanied by her servant, went from house to house a messenger of mercy. The harvest-field of suffering and privation was then, as ever, white; but the reapers were few, and of modern reaping instruments—hospitals and "homes"—there were none. How much Christianity has done, yet how much to do!

Partaking of a plain mid-day meal of maza, barley bread, and figs, with a venerable heathen widow whose heart was opening to Christianity, she also supplied this poor one's need, and resumed her journey refreshed.

The afternoon was well advanced when they passed underneath the Triple Arch of the city wall on their way outward to a sheltered spot not far beyond. In a clump of olive trees and beside a limpid spring, they came upon a hut occupied by motherless children, alone and unprotected, the hireling having left the day before. Sadder still, the only one old enough to give material help, and who did help as long as she was able, Biona, a girl of twelve, was dying of consumption. The sight to Pathema was very distressing, but she attended promptly to the wants of the sick one, laving her face and hands, and giving her a little nourishment, while Miriam looked after the younger children and the house.

Biona was somewhat revived, and Pathema sat down beside her to whisper just a consoling word or two at intervals. The girl expressed heir gratitude briefly, showing it more in her large, hollow but brilliant eyes, which rested for a time in peace on her visitor's tender face. The peace was of short duration, for Biona was very feeble. She moved her head and hands uneasily in the hot air of the little room, and at last exclaimed in a low plaintive voice—"Oh! for breath and rest, rest."

"Let me carry thee out, my dear, as thy father does, and lay thee among the olive trees," said Pathema, feeling keenly, while she held the invalid's thin, white hand bearing the marks of toil.

"Thou art not able," replied Biona huskily, and with grateful tears, adding to herself in a dreamy whisper—"My father, poor father!"

But Pathema was wiry and enduring, easily fit for the fragile burden, and having by a word persuaded the sufferer she wrapped her in a long white chiton, and carried her with great tenderness out into the cooler welcome air, beside the refreshing spring.

"How delightful is rest!" said the dying girl, as she gazed up through the olive branches into the clear blue sky.

"There is abundance of rest in store, my beloved, even the rest that remaineth for the people of God."

Biona lay quietly, enjoying a measure of peace. Her pet white dove, flying from an overhanging branch, came down beside her; it hopped upon the pillow, and with gentle wing softly brushed her pallid cheek. She turned her head toward it, and gazing fondly upon the affectionate creature, forgot her weariness for a time—a little time. Then she began to move her head restlessly, whispering often and with yearning look the word father.

The watchful attendant changed the weary one's position, and gave her rest again. This was done as often as it was needed, and the need had no end. Pathema prayed earnestly for the sufferer's recovery or release. Her voice was the heart's melody, soft and soothing, if to soothe were possible.

The father, a big sympathetic man, had by this time reached the bordering olive trees, on his way home from a brief search for aid. His clothing was very simple and plain: a dark exomis (a short sleeveless frock), and shoes of leather, studded with nails. As was common, he was bareheaded. He had a melancholy foreboding that calamity was near at hand. His oxen stood idle in their stall from early morning. Noticing with surprised relief that his child was already out in the grove, with some merciful one reclining by her side, he stole up a little nearer and halted unobserved.

"Oh! for rest, rest," his daughter faintly cried; and the strong man shook with emotion. "Oh! that I might be at rest!" she cried again, as if a last feeble effort, "but how hard it is, how hard! to leave my little brothers and my poor lonely father."

Creeping closer, Pathema raised Biona's weary head and placed it tenderly in her own bosom. Feeling that the spark of life was low (for the little hands were getting cold), and that words were unavailing, she closed her eyes and became absorbed in silent prayer.

A little interval and then, with pleading face, the simple words of the child—

"Father in heaven, take into thy kind care my father and brothers;"

And then, with a peaceful smile—

"Oh mother, I come!"

The father came forward delicately and softly behind and looked down, his eyes full of tears. The child raised her languid eyes and smiled, a strange, yearning heavenly smile; then she drew a deep breath and fell asleep—her rest, the long last rest, had come.

Let the veil lie drawn tenderly over the poor father's sorrow. It is sufficient to say that everything was done for his beloved one and his home that could be done before Pathema and her faithful servant left. The mourner's gratitude, deep and full, was their comfort and reward.

"My mistress," said Miriam, in an entreating respectful voice as they turned towards the city in weary sad silence, "thou art much in need of rest; wilt thou not proceed home, for the gathering of our people will be well-nigh broken up ere we pass by?" Miriam was wise and good, she loved her mistress fervently, and was trusted and treated as a companion, not as a liberated slave.

"We pass the door, my Miriam, and it would be a rest to turn aside and listen to the life-giving Word," answered Pathema, looking tenderly into the devoted woman's tired face; "yet for thy sake, thy needful release, I shall go on with thee."

"No, my mistress, no,—thy desire is good and right."

The Church of the Triple Arch was not far away, and the two plodded patiently and trustfully back into the city, thinking not of any danger that might come. Their day's work was done—hard and heart-trying, yet beautiful, and as an exercise of mercy, beneficial to subject as well as object, for "there is that scattereth and yet increaseth." Good were it for the world if all mankind did their possible and necessary share. The moon shone high and clear in the star-lit temple of the sky. The night was calm, and nothing broke the stillness save the discordant, mocking cry of a laughing hyena far behind, with an occasional, distant shout rising from the city in front. As they emerged from the olive-grove, the pet white dove, pursued by a swift-winged night-hawk, swept like an arrow across their track, as if an omen of coming trouble.

CHAPTER III

STILL ON THE WATCH.

Demonicus and Timon stood at the open door of the Christian church, not far from the Triple Arch of the city wall, listening to the voice of the shepherd Orestes, and eagerly watching for something whereby they might seize him and certain others. But Demonicus, sycophantes, constable, and gladiator all in one, was irritated, for the prize had not yet arrived; and as the time sped on, his tiger-nature exhibited itself in low growls at his calmer companion.

"Another day," snarled he, "and the case will have turned into other hands."

"I do not despair," replied Timon, "and yet, to be frank, I almost repent—it seems a shame to lay hands on such a woman."

"Art thou, my brave Timon,