CHAPTER XVII. SALOME. "Cling to the Crucified! His death is life to thee,- His pains thy pardon seal; His cross proclaims thy peace, Bids every sorrow cease. His blood is all to thee; It purges thee from sin, It sets thy spirit free, It keeps thy conscience clean. In a cottage window, that looked upon the beautiful bay of Lamlash, might have been seen for several nights consecutively the glimmer of a candle, which shone at the midnight hour, when each other light seemed extinguished. Lamlash was a picturesque village on the same coast as Brodick. The features of the scenery were not so grand; there were not the same lofty mountains rising behind it, nor the same deep glens running far into the interior. But for this there was some compensation; a beautiful rocky island rose in the centre of the bay, and formed quite a new object in the landscape. Its dark rocks looked frowning beside the clear waters beneath; but, casting their protection over the haven, they caused a great contrast between the turbulent sea beyond and the smooth belt, that separated the little isle from the mainland. The glimmering light marked the room where, when others slept, the widow Salome perused that blessed Gospel, which hath brought life and immortality to light. As she read, she prayed for faith; and as she prayed, faith grew; and as faith increased, love spread its blessed influence over her heart, and urged her unto further prayer; and thus, by God's grace, she had entered, as it has been beautifully called, that "everlasting circle" of prayer, and faith, and love, which shall ever enlarge until, in an eternal world, prayer being changed to praise, and faith being lost in knowledge, deeper praise, extending knowledge, and increasing love, shall be the ever-widening circle of the glorified soul of man. Salome pondered over the words of the Baptist, "Behold the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world! She read and re-read in the Testament those first words, which had shed on her sorrowful heart a ray of comfort:"Come unto me, and I will give you rest." She was struck with the perfect sympathy of the manhood of Jesus, and then was almost startled by the sudden display of his Omnipotent Godhead. The "Jesus wept " of the eleventh chapter of John, revealed the Man of Sorrows; the "Lazarus, come forth!" declared the Lord of life. As Salome read that beautiful chapter, she looked up to heaven, and in words, which had now become familiar to her, she felt ready to exclaim, Rabbi, thou art the Son of God, thou art the King of Israel." Her little candle was then burning in its socket, and her watch pointing to an early hour of morning. She hastily kissed her slumbering child, and whispered the prayer, "Jesus of Nazareth, suffer my little one to come unto thee," and then she stood for a little time beside the casement window. The moon had risen late, and was pouring a flood of silvery light over the entrance of the bay; the dark, frowning island, raised its huge rocks against the clear, deep azure of the starlit sky; the distant herringboats might be descried by the lights which seemed to twinkle like the far more distant stars, and sometimes a small fishing vessel going out to its morning toil crossed the path of the moonbeam. It was a lovely scene, and as Salome watched it for a few silent minutes, she seemed to read in it the lesson of the eleventh of St. John, the sympathy and the majesty of the eternal God, exhibited for the benefit of the children of men,-the children whom, though rebels, He had loved, though enemies, He had redeemed. Salome rejoiced with joy unspeakable; the sorrowful had found comfort, the weary had tasted rest, the friendless had gained a Friend,-a Friend who for her was dead once, but is alive for evermore. In the morning, the thought of present trial presented itself to her. It was a portentous cloud; but the sunlight over her soul made it appear only a shadow. It was a nauseous ingredient; but the sweetness of her cup was such, she could not taste its bitterness. She taught the little Adah to bend the knee, whilst, like Salome of old, she brought her child to receive a blessing from the Lord Jesus. She told her the story of His death, and Adah's eyes filled with tears as she heard of the crucifixion of Him, who was never wicked, but was always good and kind. Salome fondly kissed her lovely child; she sighed to think of the influences that would probably surround her, when she should be gone; but again she thought of the almighty sym-pathy of the Lord Jesus, and she cast this burden upon Him, assured that He was able and willing to sustain her. And now the hour approached when she must meet her father. Must she conceal from him the truth, that she believed Christianity? or must she reveal it? She felt that she could bear his anger, but she could not behold his grief; that, strong in the faith, she could withstand the fire of his eye but her heart sunk as she thought of the hands wrung in agony, and of the tear that would fall over his aged cheek; but then again she had read in the Gospel, “Whoso loveth father or mother more than me, is not worthy of me. He that confesseth me before men, him will I confess before my Father which is in heaven." Whilst Salome was thus pondering on the conflicting thoughts, which again and again crossed her mind, the aged Rabbi entered, and, with the usual patriarchal benediction, he blessed his daughter. Salome trembled as she took her father's hand; and, pale and nervous, she sat down to the morning repast. The resolution of the preceding night seemed to have given way, and Salome learnt once more that her own strength was perfect weakness. The breakfast passed over silently; the old man observed the paleness of his daughter, and as the Scotch servant was clearing the table, he remarked, "My child, I do not think the mountain breezes are doing the good I hoped. You look very pale this morning." "Oh, no, my father, I am quite well, and I do enjoy the air of this island." "I think, however, it is time that we tried further change;" so, turning to the servant, he said, "You may tell your mistress that we shall be leaving the day after to-morrow." "Weel, sir, if it be for the ladye's bad look, it is no to be wondered at. The air by day will do her no gude, when she has not the sleep by night." "Wast thou ill last night?" inquired the old man of his child. "No, father, not at all; I slept well." "What, then, can the girl mean?" inquired the old Rabbi, for the servant had left the room. The sudden flush mounted into Salome's face, as she remembered the late hour at which the light in her little window was put out. "I was busy, father, and I sat up late. I suppose she has known that," replied the Jewish widow. "Working, I suppose, for thy child? Salome, don't do that; take care of thy health for thy father's and thy daugh |