* * * * * “But I never saw His face in life after that first strained glance. I could not have raised my eyes to look upon His weakness and humiliation. I followed on to Calvary without seeing or hearing anything, and I kept out of sight as best I could. But when, in the darkest hour of desolation, He gave that terrible broken-hearted cry I struggled to my feet from my place behind the Cross and stretched out my arms toward it. Oh, God! Only those who have been utterly powerless know its sinking misery. I only fell back again, I was of no use. And after that what matter? Wherever I went, whatever I did, I saw that haggard face and heard those words, ‘Mary!’ It rang through the city in the deadest night, through my veins the whole day long, and then in accents grave and full of strongest meaning, ‘Touch me not. I am not yet ascended to my Father.’ In the garden, on the morning that they call the Resurrection, it came to me again. The sepulchre was empty. The dead body was stolen by the Jews; but from that world invisible I heard the song of angels wafting the words again to me, ‘Mary! Touch me not. I am not yet ascended to my Father.’ It is only a simple story this of mine, and it is short enough. “One, too, that has been often told, so perhaps I may have wearied you with telling it again.” “And afterwards?” “Well, afterwards the days grew into one another like one continuous night. I think I was a coward, because I had no wish to live. When at last the sun of life was set and the dawn of Heaven broke I left earth with a happy and contented sigh to enter on the spiritual childhood. I had lived just long enough to learn to stand alone—for before His death I had always leant on Him. After that I was as happy as happy could be, and have been ever since.” Then for some time there was silence, till at last I said,— “When I was in Hell I noticed some of the finest workmanship portrayed the Crucifixion and Agony of Christ. Since coming here I have seen none of that. It surprised me greatly to see it there.” She looked at me with a mixture of sadness and wonder. “Ah!” she explained, “that is one of their jests. The finest comedy I ever witnessed in Hell was one based upon that human tragedy. I laughed and cried at the same time, especially when I saw myself there, hoping against hope, yet most strongly and most innocently, that at the last minute He would come down from the Cross and stop all the jeering and the mockery, and drive away the darkness and the cloud.” “But surely when you saw the Figure hanging there you restrained your mirth?” She only laughed.