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everything that you sent us。 This is the mansion prepared for
you。〃
As he spoke； his look grew deeper and more searching； like a
flame of fire。
John Weightman could not endure it。 It seemed to strip him naked
and wither him。 He sank to the ground under a crushing weight of
shame；
covering his eyes with his hands and cowering face downward
upon the stones。 Dimly through the trouble of his mind he felt
their
hardness and coldness。
〃Tell me； then；〃 he cried； brokenly； 〃since my life has been so
little worth； how came I here at all？〃
〃Through the mercy of the King〃the answer was like the soft
tolling of
a bell。
〃And how have I earned it？〃 he murmured。
〃It is never earned； it is only given；〃 came the clear； low
reply。
〃But how have I failed so wretchedly；〃 he asked； 〃in all the
purpose of
my life？ What could I have done better？ What is it that counts
here？〃
〃Only that which is truly given；〃 answered the bell…like voice。
Only that good which is done for the love of doing it。
Only those plans in which the welfare of others is the master
thought。
Only those labors in which the sacrifice is greater than the
reward。
Only those gifts in which the giver forgets himself。〃
The man lay silent。 A great weakness； an unspeakable despondency
and
humiliation were upon him。 But the face of the Keeper of the
Gate was
infinitely tender as he bent over him。
〃Think again； John Weightman。 Has there been nothing like that
in
your life？〃
〃Nothing；〃 he sighed。 〃If there ever were such things； it must
have been
long agothey were all crowded outI have forgotten them。〃
There was an ineffable smile on the face of the Keeper of the
Gate；
and his hand made the sign of the cross over the bowed head as he
spoke gently：
〃These are the things that the King never forgets； and because
there were a few of them in your life； you have a little place
here。〃
The sense of coldness and hardness under John Weightman's hands
grew sharper and more distinct。 The feeling of bodily weariness
and
lassitude weighed upon him； but there was a calm； almost a
lightness；
in his heart as he listened to the fading vibrations of the
silvery bell…tones。 The chimney clock on the mantel had just
ended
the last stroke of seven as he lifted his head from the table。
Thin； pale strips of the city morning were falling into the room
through
the narrow partings of the heavy curtains。
What was it that had happened to him？ Had he been ill？ Had he
died and
come to life again？ Or had he only slept； and had his soul gone
visiting
in dreams？ He sat for some time； motionless； not lost； but
finding himself
in thought。 Then he took a narrow book from the table drawer；
wrote a check； and tore it out。
He went slowly up the stairs； knocked very softly at his son's
door；
and； hearing no answer； entered without noise。 Harold was
asleep；
his bare arm thrown above his head； and his eager face relaxed in
peace。
His father looked at him a moment with strangely shining eyes；
and then tiptoed quietly to the writing…desk； found a pencil and
a sheet of paper； and wrote rapidly：
〃My dear boy； here is what you asked me for； do what you like
with it；
and ask for more if you need it。 If you are still thinking of
that work with Grenfell； we'll talk it over to…day after church。
I want to know your heart better； and if I have made mistakes〃
A slight noise made him turn his head。 Harold was sitting up in
bed
with wide…open eyes。
〃Father！〃 he cried； 〃is that you？〃
〃Yes； my son；〃 answered John Weightman； 〃I've come backI mean
I've come upno； I mean come inwell； here I am；
and God give us a good Christmas together。〃
End