Womanhood During the Apostolic Ministry. TABITHA--GLORIFIED HER NEEDLE--THE RESULTS OF LITTLE ACTS--LYDIA--HER HUMILITY--PHILIP’S FOUR DAUGHTERS--PHŒBE--PRISCILLA--EUNICE--LOIS--EUDIA--SYNTYCHE--HULDA-- THE HEBREW MAID--TAMAR--MOTHERS OF GREAT MEN--THE AUTHOR OF THE BIBLE WOMAN’S BEST FRIEND. We now come to the blessed ministry of women during the Apostolic age. And the first of these is Tabitha. Her residence was at Joppa. She was a “disciple,” and Luke renders her name, Tabitha, out of the Aramaic into the Greek as Dorcas. We further read that she was “full of good works,” among which that of making clothes for the poor is specifically mentioned. Tabitha had, without doubt, served Christ with her needle for many years, and exercised her faith by performing works of love. But there came a day when the fingers refused longer to ply the needle, and the heart grew faint, and in weariness she laid aside the unfinished garment, just to take a little rest, and when the neighbors and “widows” came in, they quickly saw the flushed cheek, and her critical condition aroused their anxious solicitude to relieve and care for and comfort her. The fear of losing her excited and agonized them. The apprehension of their great loss, in case she should be removed from them, almost drove the little church at Joppa to distraction. But, notwithstanding the tender ministry of loving hands and aching hearts, Tabitha daily grew worse, and finally yielded up her spirit. “The calm moon looked down while she was dying, The earth still held her way; Flowers breathed their perfume, and the wind kept sighing; Nought seemed to pause or stay.” Clasp the hands meekly over the still breast, they have no more work to do; close the weary eyes, they have no more tears to shed; part the damp tresses, they have no more pain to bear. Closed is the ear to love’s kind and gentle voice. No anxious care gathers on the marble brow as you gaze. No throb of pleasure pulsates from the dear, loving bosom, nor mantling flush mounts the blue-veined temple. Can this be death? Oh, if beyond death’s swelling flood there was no eternal shore! If for the struggling bark there were no port of peace! If athwart that lowering cloud sprang no bright bow of promise! Alas for love if this were all, and naught beyond the parting at earth’s portals.