he beheld a sight which at once excited his wonder and compassion. Seated on the ground, between two graves -which, judging from their respective dimensions, were those of an adult and a child-was a wild, gaunt, spectre-visaged being, whose restless eye with feverish activity rolled restlessly around like that of a famished hyena. His scanty and negligently-arranged dress was composed of skins in their natural condition; and head-gear he had none, save his own matted unkempt hair, which hung over his weather-bronzed visage, like the mane of an untamed steed of the desert.

VI.

For a season, Isaac was filled with no small alarm at the sight of this mysterious creature. He conceived that perchance he might be one of those strangely afflicted demoniacs then so rife in Palestine, and who, in their hours of special possession, frequently wrought sore harm to any who had the evil chance to light upon their lairs. His apprehension, however, was but of brief duration, for he soon discovered that the solitary sorrower belonged not to the tormented vassals of Satan, and that in his bloodshot eye the light of reason still continued to burn, though dim and flickering as a torch in the winter's sleet-charged wind.

VII.

Glaring vacantly on the clear, blue sky, that eremite spoke aloud the thoughts which welled from his troubled and fever-vexed brain. "No," he exclaimed, "the Sadducée was right! The soul is mortal, and the bodily resurrection a dream of drivelling dotards. My sweet Judith! never more can I behold thy liquid black eyenever more be thrilled through each nerve with thy smile, discoursing love unspeakable. And my darling Benjamin! my noble, peerless child, what art thou but a delicious vision, fled, woe's me, and vanished for ever. Never again wilt thou nestle thy fair silken-haired head in my bosom, nor lisp my name in staggering half-uttered words, more musical by far than sounds of the most cunningly played dulcimer. Ye are vanished and gone, like a streak of morning mist-like a foam-bell in the mountain stream.

VIII.

"Once, indeed, I could have thought after a different fashion. Time was, when I cherished the hope, that beyond the dark tomb, in a brighter and tearless state of existence, I would meet with both of you again, never more to experience the sharp agony of parting. But

that is past-all past. Caiaphas the Sadducee taught me my error, and convinced me that there is no resurrection, neither angel nor spirit. Oh! cursed be the cold, blighting knowledge which that sneering, ungenial philosopher bestowed upon me. Dream as my belief was, it was a bright and surpassingly soothing dream. Since it was dispelled, life has been to me nought save a simoom- . blasted desert-a dry and thirsty land, wherein is no water." And with that the heart-sick one threw himself madly upon his face, and dug his long, vulture-like nails into the twin funereal-mounds, between which he writhed like a crushed and convulsed snake.

IX.

Isaac of Bethlehem could not behold unmoved this pitiable abandonment of grief. Approaching the sufferer, he spoke to him in soothing tones. With gentle hand he uplifted him from the hard and churlish earth; and tenderly as a young mother handles her first-born, he wiped the clammy sweat from his forehead, and the dustmingled foam from his parched and quivering lips. These kind offices had the effect of restoring comparative composure to the hermit of the graves, and after a season he thus discoursed to his benefactor.

X.

"Gentle stranger! if thou hadst known my Judith and our child, you would not marvel at the big agony which at times masters me, as it has done even now. But I will not essay to describe their matchless beauty, or my surpassing happiness. As well might I describe to you the colours and scent of a rare and fragrant flower, the sight or odour of which you never experienced.

XI.

"Our world is more than thirty years older since, with my loved and lost ones, I dwelt in a cottage which stood on yonder grassy mound. It was a tabernacle of unalloyed delectitude. Not a care disturbed our quiet days. Not an anxious thought marred or wrinkled the sabbaths of our peaceful nights. Sorrow was a strange tale to us. Every new sun-rise brought fresh sources of unadulterated delight. Each evening the moon and stars smiled in their courses, at the vision of our unsurpassable enjoyment. My home was heaven. Seeing that there is no heaven hereafter, I am now amidst all the bitterness of hell.

XII.

"Of passing events we knew almost nothing. Seldom did I visit either Jerusalem or Bethlehem, and then only

on urgent and unavoidable occasions. My business despatched, I was too eager to return to my paradise, to bestow much attention upon the themes which interested and engrossed the men of active life. On one occasion, I remember, we heard tidings of a strange and mysterious child which had been born in our city, and to visit which certain sages had come a long, and perilous, and toilsome journey. But we had ourselves a babe, fairer, we deemed, than ever had sprung from the loins of our father Adam; and Judith and myself had neither care nor affection to lavish upon any other. Alas! our aroma of life was soon to be dissipated for ever-and oh how sharply and how sternly!

XIII.

"On my way home from Jerusalem, one calm but murky night, I met with a plain man journeying together with his wife and a young child, the two latter being seated upon an ass. He enquired of me concerning the most direct road to Egypt, and seemed in haste to proceed, tarrying no longer than to obtain such information as it was in my power to afford. In answer to a question which I incidentally put, he told me that his name was Joseph-that his native place was Nazareth in Galilee—