“Do I look well?” asked Judith in surprise. “No.” “You are like a lily,” said Sarah. But Judith insisted that she looked, at least, a little thin. “And my eyes are all red from crying,” she added. She did not walk in her rose garden that night. In the morning Sarah said to her, “You are yellow as a dead leaf.” And she brought the little mirror for her mistress to look into. Judith looked at her reflection for a long time. She seemed a little proud and a little vexed at what she saw. “It is because I have suffered so much,” she said at last to Sarah. And she added, “Men are so cruel.” In the afternoon she dressed in white, with a girdle of silver about her hips. And Hiram, meeting Sarah in the court, cool with its fountain, said to the nurse, “The Lady Judith has a very spiritual face. Is she unhappy about something?” But Sarah threw up her hands at the mere thought of such a thing. “‘Unhappy’?” she cried; “what an idea. She knows nothing of life. She is like a lily. If she looks a little sad, it is because of her gentle nature.” That night Judith dined with her uncle and his guest. Her cheeks were pink as the youngest roses in her garden, her lips red again, like poppies. Ahab, seeing her blooming so, was satisfied. And Hiram also watched her carefully, with his shrewd dark eyes. In Judith’s apartments Sarah put away the pots of red and pink paste, the myrrh and cassia buds, and the little silver mirror. Then with a sigh she sat down to await the return of her mistress. She was content; she felt that the worst was over. “A woman should know her own worth,” she said to herself; “in that way she saves every one a lot of trouble.” X Jonah stood again before Amaziah, the High Priest. On his face, dark with woe, were drawn lines of determination. He held out his hands, empty, and brown as the earth. “I have not brought you anything this time,” he said, “not even an eagle’s feather.” Amaziah chose to ignore this greeting. “What now, Jonah,” he exclaimed cheerfully; “do you not bring me another war? The presence of my favorite prophet fills me with the liveliest hopes.” But Jonah shook his head. “I am weary of being a prophet,” he said simply; “I have come to ask you to make me a priest.” Without losing the serenity of his expression, Amaziah looked thoughtfully at the young man whose weary face expressed dissatisfaction and bitterness. The old High Priest seemed to be reaching back into his own past, to the time when he, too, had had a choice to make. And his face, as he gazed at Jonah, softened; an expression almost of pity crossed his features, sharp and cruel as a hawk’s. “This is bad news, Jonah,” he said gently. And he was silent, waiting for an answer. But Jonah had nothing further to say. Amaziah stroked his chin. “Tell me,” he said at last, “what has caused you to look with dissatisfaction on your career at the very moment when all Israel speaks of you with admiration?”