road that led on to Jerusalem, a sharp pang seizing his heart as, every now and then, a child or an older passer-by darted across the road, lest they should touch him, exclaiming in horror ill-suppressed: " 'T is Simon the Leper."
"Who knoweth what trickery they have contrived in yonder chamber?" said the ever–suspicious Annas to a bystander, dreading even now a miracle at the last moment, and neglecting no opportunity of instilling disbelief in its reality, should it apparently take place.
The sad day was over, with its bereavement and its disillusions, its horrible disappointments, its fruitless yearning for the glorious Presence which would have so revived their drooping spirits. Lazarus had been laid in his grave amid the chants and wailing of nearly all Jerusalem. The air around the grave was heavy with the perfumes that had been brought as gifts. One by one the mourners had departed, leaving a little group of intimates behind. Yet still Annas lingered, half in awe and half suspicious. Then, while the women continued to kneel beside the grave, he approached Martha and addressed her courteously enough.
"Lady," he said, "wouldst permit that these, my soldiers, roll a stone upon the grave?"
"Wherefore?" asked Martha, eying the wily Jew with some distrust.
With shifting glance, he yet tried to look her steadfastly in the face. "I fear some trickery," he said; and the accent of truth rang out in the greasy voice.
"Art not ashamed to say such things?" asked Martha testily. Then, drawing herself up to her full
