Like every other old Jew, Dan liked the marvellous, and listened to his son's stories, not knowing whether he believed or disbelieved, nor seeking to inquire; content to enjoy the stories as they went by, he listened, suffering such a little disappointment when his son's voice ceased as he might at the death of a melodious wind among the branches, the same little sadness. Moreover, while Joseph talked he had his attention, and it irritated him to see Joseph's thoughts wander from him in search of parrots and monkeys; and he begged his son to tell him another miracle, for he was sure that Joseph had not told him the last one. Joseph pleaded that there was no use relating miracles to one who only believed in ancient miracles, a statement that Dan combated, saying that one could like a story for its own sake. Like a Gentile, Joseph interposed gaily, bringing all the same a cloud into his father's face, which he would have liked to disperse with the relation of another miracle, but he continued to plead that he had told all his stories. There was, however, a certain faint-heartedness in his pleading, and Dan became more certain than ever that his son was holding back a miracle, and becoming suddenly curious, he declared that Joseph had no right to hold back a story from him, for to do that provoked argument, and argument fatigued him. Joseph thought the device to extort a story from him, which he did not wish to tell, a shabby one, but, fearing to vex his father in his present state of health, he began to think it would be better to tell him the miracle he had heard of that morning at Capernaum; but, still loath, he tried instead to divert his father's attention from Jesus, reminding him of the numerous matters that would have to be settled up between them, especially Dan's responsibility in the new adventure, the transport of grain from Moab to Jerusalem. Dan's curiosity was not to be diverted, and seeing him give way to his rage like a petulant child, Joseph decided that he must tell him, and he began with a disparagement of his story, the truth of which he did not vouch for. At Capernaum they were all telling how some two or three weeks ago Jesus heard God speaking within him, and, naming those he wished to accompany him, led them through the woods, up the slow ascending hills in silence, no word being exchanged between him and them. Every one of the disciples was aware that the Master was in communion with his Father in heaven, and that his communion was shared by them as long as a word was not spoken. A word would break it; and so they journeyed with their eyes set upon the stars or upon the ground, never daring to look for Jesus, who remained amongst them for an hour or more and then seemed to them to pass into shadow, only his voice remaining with them bidding them to journey on, which they did, each man in his faith, until they reached a lonely hill on the top of which stood a blighted tree. Why, Master, they