Two from Galilee Read Free

brought Hannah up short. But she retorted, "See that you remember that and never give us cause to hang our heads."
     
    This morning, slapping the cakes onto the now glowing coals for breakfast, Hannah smiled a trifle guiltily to remember. As if Mary could ever cause them shame. For Mary was all the things she claimed and more, things that, maddeningly, you could not convey to outsiders. Even sweaty and laughing from play as a little girl, or grubby from toil, there had always been this queer delicacy of her person, this quality of gentleness, as if she were truly a king's child. She was patient and helpful with the younger children; her wit brightened the darkest days.
    If she had faults they were but the kind that gave her flavor. A fierce allegiance to her father, sometimes shutting Hannah out. A tendency to dream over the spindle. And she was not content with the old songs and tales (this worried her mother most) but would make up songs and stories of her own. "If she were a boy she might have been another David or Solomon," said Joachim. But Hannah had small patience with such imaginings. A girl should never be anything but the mouthpiece of the truth.
    The truth. Sternly Hannah examined her own concept of Mary. Even allowing for prejudice, surely if ever a daughter was well nigh perfect, that daughter was her own. And most of the village knew it. Certainly the young men knew it. Not one of Mary's cousins could claim such impressive suitors as had already approached Joachim.
    Hannah tallied them up: Abner, whose family traced their lineage to the first high priest of The Land, but who supported themselves as sandal makers. Abner—tall, gaunt, sweet-natured but rather remote, forever poring over his books. His parents had scraped up the money to send him to Jerusalem for study. He aspired to be a priest and serve in the Temple and it seemed likely he would succeed. Hannah could not but be tempted as she visualized Mary living near its splendors, her days heightened by its constant procession of holy and important people.
    And Cleophas. Son of Reb Levi, a town elder and its richest citizen. He dealt in silks and spices and fine stuffs which most of Nazareth was too poor except to admire. He was forever sending Cleophas on trips to K'far Nahum and Sidon. Joachim's relatives buzzed that the family dealt with agents of Herod, although Hannah marked that up to jealousy. Certainly Cleophas was a handsome if somewhat wild and arrogant boy, and he doted on Mary. Sought her out at the grape treadings and sheep shearings and dancing at wedding feasts. Hannah's blood quickened as she thought of the fine house of stone and cedarwood of which Mary might one day be mistress, the gems and elegant fabrics that would surely enhance her loveliness.
    Joachim had put both fathers off when they sounded him out last year. Not wishing to admit that Mary was not yet nubile he had said merely in his brusque, authoritative way: "We need her. There's plenty of time."
    Yes, time. Plenty of time even now, Hannah reassured herself. For she had wearied already of thinking of suitors—she could feel one of her headaches coming on. No, she would not allow herself to think of others. Especially not one.
    Yet Joseph's tall splendid body seemed to invade the tiny room. His sea-gray eyes seemed to haunt her, demanding, insistent. And so she must cope with him. Jacob, his father, was also of the stock of Jesse, she had to admit, but poor, and a wine-bibber, it was rumored. A squat, merry, loquacious little man who sang and joked as he mended the carts of passing travelers, leaving the shop that adjoined their mean little cave of a house pretty much to his eldest son.
    Unlike his father, Joseph was rather sober, albeit he had a quick smile and a radiance about the eyes very pleasant to behold. Called forward to read the Scriptures on the Sabbath, he came on a light, quick, pounding tread that seemed to stir all the girls seated in the gallery. Even Hannah