croaking frogs and the far-off barking of dogs disturbed the silence.
Presently Lazarus murmured faintly: "Sing to me, Mary." It was as if he had bridged over years of suffering and trial and gone back to the time when he was a little child and Mary had sung him off to sleep.
Steadying her voice and wiping away her tears, Mary raised her voice on the silent night, singing to a lovely Hebrew chant the words of the Psalmist David—words that seemed written in answer to their doubtings: "The Lord is righteous in all His ways, and holy in all His works. The Lord is nigh unto all them that call upon Him. He will fulfil the desire of them that fear Him: He also will bear them up and will save them. The Lord preserveth all them that love Him: Refuge failed me; I cried unto Thee, O Lord; I said Thou art my refuge and my portion in the land of the living. Attend unto my cry, for I am brought very low. Bring my soul out of prison, that I may praise Thy name."
Then, when her voice faltered, the Magdalene took up the strain and sang: "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me."
As the words died away on her quivering lips, the expiring eyes of Lazarus met hers with a smile of deepest love and gratitude. Then the jaw relaxed, the hand that lay in Mary's twitched convulsively, and the last hope of those trusting women died when Lazarus fell back dead. And into their souls there crept a dull stagnation; something seemed to
