e goat's milk and lapsed into
benumbed gazing at the red glow of fire that cast its warmth about
her. The shepherd talked on, attempting to interest her in something
other than her consuming sorrow.

"These be Christian sheep about you, friends," he said, "and I am a
Christian shepherd."

Momus sat up suddenly with a bit of the boy's bread arrested on its
way to his lips. He was eating the fare of an apostate, of a despised
Nazarene. The boy went on composedly.

"We are from Pella, the Christian city. We are, my sheep, my city and
I, the only secure people in all Judea. We, I and the sheep, have been
in the hills since the first new grass in February. We are many
leagues from home."

"So am I," Laodice said wearily.

"Jerusalem?" the shepherd asked, glad he had brought out a response.
"No? Yet all Judea is going to Jerusalem at this time. Are you
fugitives?"

Momus nodded.

"Come then to Pella," the shepherd urged. "You will be fed there;
Titus will not come there. We are poor but we are happy--and we are
safe."

Laodice thanked him so inertly that he sensed her disinterest, and
while he sat looking at her, searching his heart for something kind to
say, she put out her hand impulsively and took his.

"God keep thee and forget thy heresy," she said. "If thou livest in
Pella, Pella is indeed happy."

He laughed with a flush stealing up under the brown of his cheeks. A
faint light came into Laodice's eyes as she looked at him; he returned
her gaze with a gradual softening that was intensely complimentary.
Between the two was effected instant and lasting fellowship. Before
Momus' indignant eyes the shepherd was blushing happily.

"Who art thou?" Laodice asked.

"They call me Joseph, son of Thomas."

After a silence she said softly,

"I am not at liberty to tell my name." She remembered the secrecy of
Philadelphus' mission. "Yet perchance if the God of my fathers prosper
me and my husband, I may come to Pella--as thy queen."

The boy's eyes brightened and he drew in a sharp breath, but almost
instantly the animation died and he looked at her sorrowfully. It
seemed that she read dissent and sympathy commingled in his gaze. But
he was a Christian; he could not believe and hope as she hoped.

"Can I do aught for you?" he asked disjointedly.

"Our duty is rather toward you, child," she answered, suddenly
arousing to the peril they might bring their free-handed host. "We
have newly come from a country wher