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necessary that he should enter.

They passed from street to street among fair and spacious dwellings, set in amaranthine gardens, and adorned with an infinitely varied beauty of divine simplicity. The mansions differed in size, in shape, in charm: each one seemed to have its own personal look of loveliness; yet all were alike in fitness to their place, in harmony with one another, in the addition which each made to the singular and tranquil splendor of the city.

As the little company came, one by one, to the mansions which were prepared for them, and their Guide beckoned to the happy inhabitant to enter in and take possession, there was a soft murmur of joy, half wonder and half recognition; as if the new and immortal dwelling were crowned with the beauty of surprise, lovelier and nobler than all the dreams of it had been; and yet also as if it were touched with the beauty of the familiar, the remembered, the long-loved. One after another the travelers were led to their own mansions, and went in gladly; and from within, through the open doorways came sweet voices of welcome, and low laughter, and song.

At last there was no one left with the Guide but the two old friends, Doctor McLean and John Weightman. They were standing in front of

one of the largest and fairest of the houses, whose garden glowed softly with radiant flowers. The Guide laid his hand upon the doctor’s shoulder.

“This is for you,” he said. “Go in; there is no more pain here, no more death, nor sorrow, nor tears; for your old enemies are all conquered. But all the good that you have done for others, all the help that you have given, all the comfort that you have brought, all the strength and love that you have bestowed upon the suffering, are here; for we have built them all into this mansion for you.”

The good man’s face was lighted with a still joy. He clasped his

old friend’s hand closely, and whispered: “How wonderful it is! Go on, you will come to your mansion next, it is not far away, and we shall see each other again soon, very soon.”

So he went through the garden, and into the music within. The Keeper of the Gate turned to John Weightman with level, quiet, searching eyes. Then he asked, gravely:

“Where do you wish me to lead you now?”

“To see my own mansion,” answered the man, with half-concealed excitement. “Is there not one here for me? You may not let me enter it yet, perhaps, for I must confess to you that I am only–“

“I know,” said the Keeper of the Gate–“I know it all. You are John Weightman.”

“Yes,” said the man, more firmly than he had spoken at first, for it gratified him that his name was known. “Yes, I am John Weightman, Senior Warden of St. Petronius’ Church. I wish very much to see my mansion here, if only for a moment. I believe that you have one for me. Will you take me to it?”

The Keeper of the Gate drew a little book from the breast of his robe and turned over the pages.

“Certainly,” he said, with a curious look at the man, “your name is here; and you shall see your mansion if you will follow me.”

It seemed as if they must have walked miles and miles, through the vast city, passing street after street of houses larger and smaller, of gardens richer and poorer, but all full of beauty and delight.

They came into a kind of suburb, where there were many small cottages, with plots of flowers, very lowly, but bright and fragrant. Finally they reached an open field, bare and lonely-looking. There were two or three little bushes in it, without flowers, and the grass was sparse and thin. In the center of the field was a tiny hut, hardly big enough for a shepherd’s shelter. It looked as if it had been built of discarded things, scraps and