A happy group was that gathered under old Raguel’s roof. The father, who cherished with unmeasured affection the only child which the dreadful pestilence had spared to him; Othniel, the traveler, the betrothed of the maiden, who was to the old man’s heart already a cherished son. He had come back from a long wandering in the East, to claim of the father his child, for early in their youth the two had vowed to love one another; and as time passed on, it saw them cherishing no regret for their childish vows. As he approached the years of manhood, a desire to see the wonders of the East had seized upon Othniel, and for a few years he had traveled through all the Holy Land, in Egypt, and over the deserts, until at last wearied and longing for the embrace and the presence of those left behind, he had hastened to the dearly remembered old town on the shore of the blue sea. Since his return, his home had been made with Raguel and Myrrah; and the day was speedily approaching when the children of the old man’s heart were to be made one. But the sunshine of that home had been wanting without the cheerful voice, the songs, the smiles of Myrrah—her presence was the crowning joy that gave to all the others worth. And, lo! that hope of the old man’s heart, that blessing of young Othniel sleeps this night in a prison, and armed men are keeping guard about her cell! Look, _now_ within the maiden’s home. The gray-haired father, whose face bears heavy marks of age and sickness, lies smitten with sore anguish upon his couch; his heavy moans are sad to hear, for no light sorrow had brought tears to his eyes, or wrung from him words of complaint. Pacing to and fro through the beautiful chamber is the despairing lover of the maiden. He, too, has wept, but his tears are wiped away now, and anger and hopeless grief are written on his countenance. It would seem that Othniel’s rich and striking apparel had been assumed in mockery of his own agony—but it was not so. Hope and joy were never before so bright in his heart, as on that morning, when he donned the embroidered robes, and arrayed himself for the bridal. Yes, for the bridal! Myrrah and Othniel were on that day to have been made one. See, now, as he moves so madly through the room, his garments have become entangled in the chords of Myrrah’s harp; hear the soft, sighing sound that escapes from the instrument, as in a moment, calmed and subdued, the youth bends down to disengage his robe; that breath of music causes the father’s tears to flow afresh, and Othniel, again unmanned, flings himself upon the door, and gives way to the uncontrollable grief. In another chamber is prepared the wedding-feast; a rich banquet, “fit for the gods,” served up in costliest style, awaiting the bidden guests, and the happy bride and bridegroom.