crites, who pointed the finger of scorn at others in the hope of blinding their fellows to their own far greater sins.
Yes, it had been new life, a new, strange comfort, this theory of faith, repentance, and forgiveness; this wiping out of the past her soul had longed for. She—who had seen the worst of human nature, who had learned to look with loathing upon man and all his selfishness; tortured with remorse; trembling over loss of self-respect; weeping at her forfeited good fame; longing for relief, like the thirsty flower for the refreshing rain, and dying bird for the rays of the glowing sun—had fallen down in worship at the feet of the perfect Man, who brought salvation to trusting women instead of ruin; who crowned all manhood by His pure humanity, and conferred undying honour on all womanhood by the manner of His birth.
But she had grown humble and diffident, this poor, worn woman.
Away from Jesus, she dreaded life. If her Lord should die, she prayed that she might also die. Then, in the grey twilight of that Eastern night, thoughts stirred her deeply, as oft they do when we are alone, and, most of all, alone with nature, and the words of the Nazarene came back to her, when He had likened Himself to a good shepherd, and all that that implied.
Oh, how wonderful it was, this change in her! How her heart glowed with gratitude and love! Then midway in her journey and in the silent darkness, the Magdalene fell down on the soft grass by the roadside in deep humility, and bowed her head
