CHAPTER V.
FOR a long while, almost from the moment when the Messiah had first entered his door, Lazarus had been ailing. His illness seemed to baffle his physician; for it yielded to none of the simple remedies he prescribed. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, Lazarus grew weaker, but, as day by day his body became more feeble, his faith seemed to strengthen. Never was man tended with more devotion, Martha seeing to his bodily wants, while Mary sat and read to him, or prayed with him in his moments of despondency. Moreover, during the first stages of his illness he had been daily cheered by the presence of the Nazarene; but this was before the Jews had grown so virulent in their persecutions. Who can imagine a more peaceful family circle than that little one assembled around Lazarus's sick-bed—the two devoted women, refreshed at intervals by the presence of the Saviour? Who can describe the purity of the spiritual and moral atmosphere the Christ diffused around Him? And Lazarus, lying on his couch by the window and gazing on the setting sun sinking behind the mountains and tinging the olive grove and fig trees of Bethany, would wonder why death held no horrors for him beyond the pain of separation; for that he would die of his illness he felt certain. It could not but be that the little band
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