Anxious that Deborah should know of his part in his country’s history, he mumbled shyly, with his mouth full, “The King considers me a greater prophet even than Amos of Tekoa.” “Well,” said Deborah sensibly, “why not?” Coming up to Jonah, she smoothed his hair with her hand, and gazed at him anxiously. “What a trouble you are to me,” she said gently; “making wars and such mischief. Well....” Seeing her younger son standing in the doorway, she called to him: “Come in, Aaron, here is your brother Jonah. He has just made a war. Tschk ... you would think there was nothing but fighting in the world.” Aaron came into the room, and went up to Jonah with frank curiosity. He wished to know all about it, and he asked innumerable questions. When he learned that Jonah had not brought home any gold ornaments, or rich shawls, he was disappointed. “No, really,” he exclaimed, “what is the good of a war like that?” And he sat sulkily down in a corner. But Deborah took Jonah’s part. “No, Aaron,” she said, “that would be all right for you; if you made a war, I should expect you to come home with something, a colored shawl for me, or some gold bracelets. But Jonah is different; and living in the desert, the way he does, gives him ideas. Better a war far away, like this one, than like what we used to have in your father’s time, right under my nose, killing and fighting all day long.” She turned to Jonah with a sigh. “Why,” she exclaimed, “did you choose the Aramæans to make a war with? Such wild people.” She shook her head ruefully. “Always trouble,” she decided; “never what would be sensible. “At any rate,” she wound up, “perhaps you’ll settle down now for a while and let your mother look after you, instead of living all alone in a desert with foxes. “Ak, what an old coat you have.” She went back to her oven with a smile; cheerful and loving, she found in everything some cause for satisfaction, or at least hope, if she was given time enough. And she sang now, under her breath, as she always did when she was disturbed or happy--for happiness or sorrow, either one, disturbed only a little her amiable, confused spirit: “_Men dead long ago Have set me like a tree. Let the wind blow, What is that to me? My roots are in their dust, My roots are deep, I trust. My son is at my knee._” Jonah looked at her with a gloomy but tender expression. “Mother,” he said, “what is the matter with my coat? Because it is old? It does me very well. Must I also be a beauty, to suit you?” After supper Deborah’s brother David came in to see Jonah. He also wished to know about the war, concerning which he had heard rumors. “Well,” he said to his sister, “so we have actually a prophet in our family. I congratulate you. We could afford to give a little party in honor of this.” And he looked around him with pride. “No, really,” cried Jonah; “what an idea.” He blushed to think of it. But his uncle peered angrily at him from under his shaggy eyebrows.