"But then, papa, you know it is the only possible way the road
can go, and always has been; and so we are sure that Christ
was here many a time. _Here_, papa, where our feet are
treading."

Papa looked at me and said nothing.

The way was so pleasant, that we walked on ahead of our mules,
till we came to the spring about a mile from Bethany. It was
strange to look at the water pouring out its never failing
stream, and to remember it had been doing just so ever since
nineteen hundred years ago.

"How often travellers have rested here and drunk of the water,
papa; how often Christ was here."

"That arch was not over the spring in those days, though,"
said papa.

But papa stood and looked at the spring and at the ravine, and
I saw that he was catching something of my feeling. We mounted
there, and the rest of the way we had no more talk. I did not
want to talk. There was too much to think about, as we wound
down the rough valleys or watercourses among the desolate
hills; while the air grew constantly warmer as we got lower.
No trees, no life, no vine terraces; and this was the way to
Jericho. At the ruined khan, a good distance from the top, we
dismounted and stopped to rest and take our lunch.