e forever. Before thy ax and tools wert laid away thou didst make
many things, one day a cradle--the next a bier. And between these two
doth all life lie. Life, like the red lily--yesterday a bud hidden in
its green; to-day a flower reaching toward the sun; to-morrow a dried
leaf waiting for the oven. As I think on these things I grow sad and
fearful. Yesterday the throng would make thee king. To-day those of
the Temple would stone thee. To-morrow--to-morrow it may be the crown
and the Kingdom--or--it may be--" The woman's voice which had been
growing unsteady, ended in a sob and she hid her face against the
shoulder of the young man.

"Weep not, woman, nor fear thou death," he said reassuringly. "Verily,
verily, I say unto thee, except a corn of wheat fall into the ground
and die, it abideth alone; but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit.
Hast thou not often thought of this as thou hast seen the sower and the
reaper in his season?"

"Aye, of the Kingdom thy words be comforting. But to my heart thou art
dearer than e'en the Kingdom."

"Fear not death. Death is but change. Change is but growth.
Growth--ah, growth is life. Didst not the infancy of thy babe give
place to the childhood of the boy who played in the market place?
Didst not childhood drop into the silence of the past as the youth
swung his ax on the hills of Nazareth? And the days of the
carpenter--are they not dead days? Is not the bench of the carpenter
deserted forever? Aye, hath the babe, the child, the youth all gone
that the man may live. And to-morrow will the man pass to yet another
higher form in my Father's plan of more Abundant Life. Verily, all
that hath gone on before must die that that which is, may live.
Verily, that which is, must die, that that which is to be, may be. But
ever the thread of Life goes on unbroken and always upward on the way.
Whilst thou liest alone at night and the waves of Galilee make moaning
in thy heart for that which can never return, think on these things."

CHAPTER XVIII

THOU ART THE KING

The sun cast its rising brightness over the Sea of Galilee which lay in
its rock- and sand-bound bed, quiet as if yet asleep and blue as the
cloudless sky hanging over it. Against the blue of the sea and the
blue of the sky, the figure of a man, who stood close to the water's
edge, was sharply silhouetted. For a time he stood with folded arms
looking away toward the distant coast line. Then he t