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“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 ago–they were all crowded out–I 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 back–I mean I’ve come up–no, I mean come in–well, here I am, and God give us a good Christmas together.”