learned to suppress herself, and to live in the life of her Son, as only mothers can. More and more since the death of Joseph she had lived in and for her Son; and it was with tremulous anxiety for His safety, with perhaps some illuminating hope that Cana might in some way atone for the rejection of Nazareth, that she set out with Him across the hills to the wedding of her kinsfolk.

Once more a picture of indescribable charm, definite and joyous, as though touched with the spirit of Greek art, assails the eye. In the late afternoon, as the first softness of approaching sunset falls upon the hills and the far-off snows of Hermon, the little party starts for Cana. Mary alone rides upon a mule; beside her walks her Son; and between them the silent intercourse of many a kindly glance and hand-touch is exchanged. At a few paces from them follow the newly called disciples, shy with a latent sense of intrusion, talking in whispers among themselves, thrilled to the heart when Jesus turns at intervals to look on them, conscious that this calm evening marks the first stage upon the long road of strange destinies. The twilight is falling as they enter Cana. Soft notes of flute and drum already stir the air, and in the fragrant gloom torches are lit one by one. Along the narrow street appears a slow procession of Jewish virgins, each with lighted lamp-a picture Christ reproduced long afterwards in one of His most striking parables. At last the bride advances, garlanded with flowers, veiled from head to foot, moving with timid and reluctant feet from the home of maidenhood where she will dwell no more. The bridegroom, attended by a crowd of joyous youths, meets her; the simple music swells into triumph; the street quivers with a hundred lights; and then the wedding party passes in to the feast, and the door is shut. It is a wedding of poor

people, and the feast has not proceeded far before the signs of penury assert themselves. The wine is exhausted, and the cheerful hospitality is menaced with disgrace. Mary, who knows something of the things that have happened in Capernaum, turns anxiously to her Son. She knows His kindliness of nature too well to suppose Him indifferent to the mortification of His hosts. She whispers to the servants, "Whatsoever He saith unto you, do it." In the vestibule of the house stand six waterpots of stone, covered with fresh leaves, and filled with water. Jesus signs to the servants to fill the empty wine-vessels from these water-jars, and they, wondering much, obey. And behold, by some strange alchemy, the water is turned to wine, and the ruler of the feast, suspecting no miracle, compliments the bridegroom on his thrift in keeping the best wine unto the last.

We may be sure that from that moment neither bride nor bridegroom was the central figure of the feast; all eyes were fixed on Jesus. Throughout His ministry it was the same; into whatever company He entered, He became the observed of all observers, and was accounted first and greatest. In the early dawn the feast ended, and the guests separated. What thoughts were theirs, as they passed in little groups up the familiar hill-paths to their homes! How would they stop from time to time; discuss and argue anew the strange happenings of the night; suggest probabilities and explanations that led to nothing, all the while quivering with a joyous fear, half glad and half reluctant to be released from the spell of a personality so supreme, more than half convinced that this was indeed the long-desired Messiah. They would circulate the strange story far and wide. By nightfall the whole countryside reverberated with the rumour. Curious pilgrims poured into Cana, eager to see One of whom such marvellous things

were told. But soon after dawn Jesus had departed too, travelling southward to Capernaum, taking with Him the nucleus of His kingdom-His mother and His disciples, who had seen His glory for the first time in Cana of Galilee, and henceforth they were to follow Him to death-and beyond death.

CHAPTER V

THE DIVINE PROGRAMME

AT this point in the narrative we may wisely pause to inquire what was the programme of Jesus? Every human creature, who is not a mere puppet moved automatically at the will of fashion and custom, usually forms some more or less definite plan of life. The difference between men is not so much a difference of power as of definite aim. Where the ordinary man drifts hither and thither at the call of circumstance, takes the first chance path, counting one path as good as another, and acquires a superficial veneer of ideas borrowed from many sources, the superior man marks out a course for himself, discriminates in all matters of truth and duty, and makes his life the just expression of himself. Did Jesus thus define His course? We can hardly doubt it. The exclamation of the young Boy in the Temple, "Wist ye not that I must be about my Father's business?" reveals an early sense of vocation; the last saying of Christ to Pontius Pilate defines that vocation: "To this end was I born, and for this cause came I into the world, that I should bear witness unto the truth."

Between these two declarations there lies a wide tract of life and experience. Each reveals, however, the same attitude of mind. Each expresses the temper of the idealist. For all the ills of humanity, all the subjuga

tions and tyrannies under which man groaned, Jesus had one sovereign remedy: "Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free." All vital emancipations begin in the soul. The soul that is assured of truth has already soared into an empyrean, beyond the storms of this troublesome life, and equally beyond its vain dreams, its empty perturbations, its unquiet desires, and its inordinate affections. Broadly speaking, Jesus came to teach men the truth about God, about themselves, and about their final destiny. He included all these great themes in one comprehensive phrase, "The Kingdom of God or of Heaven." Men were to seek the Kingdom of God first because nothing else really mattered. The quest of truth was the first duty of man, and the attainment of truth his loftiest achievement. No definition of spiritual idealism could be more complete, and the work to which Christ now addressed Himself was to impart the spirit of His own Divine idealism to the world.

This idealism soon proved itself to be the most powerful of solvents when applied to the current life and thought of the time. Thus, for example, the moment it was applied to the current notions of Messiahship, they disappeared. The last thing which the ordinary Jew expected of his Messiah was a fresh revelation of truth; what he did expect was political emancipation. Jesus perceived at once the grossness and incompetence of this conception. It was not political but spiritual salvation which the Jew needed. The restoration of the throne of David in Jerusalem was a triviality compared with the emergence of the nation into a higher realm of truth and piety. Patriotism, in the usual limited significance of the word, had no place among the virtues which Jesus taught, nor did He account it a virtue. When He was directly challenged on the burning grievance of the tribute-money exacted by the Romans, he gave a witty and apparently