n
watches over this precious, dangerous, gilded coffer, while Saul is
winning and losing his kingdom in a turmoil of blood and sorrow and
madness, forgetful of Israel's covenant with the Most High! At last
comes King David, from his newly won stronghold of Zion, seeking eagerly
for this lost symbol of the people's faith. "Lo, we heard of it at
Ephratah; we found it in the field of the wood." So the gray stone
cottage on the hilltop gave up its sacred treasure, and David carried it
away with festal music and dancing. But was Eleazar glad, I wonder, or
sorry, that his long vigil was ended?

To part from a care is sometimes like losing a friend.

I confess that it is difficult to make these ancient stories of peril
and adventure, (or even the modern history of Abu Ghosh the robber-chief
of this village a hundred years ago), seem real to us to-day.
Everything around us is so safe and tranquil, and, in spite of its
novelty, so familiar. The road descends steeply with long curves and
windings into the Wadi Beit Hanina. We meet and greet many travellers,
on horseback, in carriages and afoot, natives and pilgrims, German
colonists, French priests, Italian monks, English tourists and
explorers. It is a pleasant game to guess from an approaching pilgrim's
looks whether you should salute him with "_Guten Morgen_," or "_Buon'
Giorno_," or "_Bon jour_, _m'sieur_." The country people answer your
salutation with a pretty phrase: "_Neharak said umubarak_--May your day
be happy and blessed."

At Kaloniyeh, in the bottom of the valley, there is a prosperous
settlement of German Jews; and the gardens and orchards are flourishing.
There is also a little wayside inn, a rude stone building, with a
terrace around it; and there, with apricots and plums blossoming beside
us, we eat our lunch _al fresco_, and watch our long pack-train, with
the camp and baggage, come winding down the hill and go tinkling past us
toward Jerusalem.

The place is very friendly; we are in no haste to leave it. A few miles
to the southward, sheltered in the lap of a rounding hill, we can see
the tall cypress-trees and quiet gardens of 'Ain Karim, the village
where John the Baptist was born. It has a singular air of attraction,
seen from a distance, and one of the sweetest stories in the world is
associated with it. For it was there that the young bride Mary visited
her older cousin Elizabeth,--you remember the exquisite picture of the
"Visitation" by Albertinell