mpest
without only gives point to the indoor comforts of the wealthy; but it
chills the very marrow of the poor and destitute."

"Aye, indeed," sniffed the widow, with a shiver. "If it were not for
the charity of good Christians, what would poor folk do for comfort on
such an evening as this?"

"It was that very thought, my daughter," said the monk, with a sudden
earnestness on his shining face, "that brought me forth even now
through the storm to your cottage."

"Heaven reward you!" cried the widow, fervently.

"Heaven does reward the charitable!" replied the monk. "To no truth do
the Scriptures bear such constant and unbroken witness; even as it is
written: 'He that hath pity upon the poor lendeth unto the Lord; and
look, what he layeth out it shall be paid him again.'"

"What a blessed thing it must be to be able to do good!" sighed the
widow, piously wishing in her heart that the holy man would not delay
to earn his recompense.

"My daughter," said the monk, "that blessing is not withheld from you.
It is to ask your help for those in greater need than yourself that I
am come to-night." And forthwith the good brother began to tell how
two strangers had sought shelter at the monastery. Their house had
been struck by lightning, and burnt with all it contained; and they
themselves, aged, poor, and friendless, were exposed to the fury of
the storm. "Our house is a poor one," continued the monk. "The
strangers' lodging room was already full, and we are quite without the
means of making these poor souls comfortable. You at least have a
sound roof over your head, and if you can spare one or two things for
the night, they shall be restored to you to-morrow, when some of our
guests depart."

The widow could hardly conceal her vexation and disappointment. "Now,
dear heart, holy father!" cried she, "is there not a rich body in the
place, that you come for charity to a poor old widow like me, that am
in a case rather to borrow myself than to lend to others?"

"Can you spare us a blanket?" said the monk. "These poor strangers
have been out in the storm, remember."

The widow started. "What meddling busybody told him that the Baroness
gave me a new blanket at Michaelmas?" thought she; but at last, very
unwillingly, she went to an inner room to fetch a blanket from her
bed.

"They shan't have the new one, that's flat," muttered the widow; and
she drew out the old one and began to fold it up. But though she had
made mu