overing of ice, which presently cracked and burst into a
thousand fragments. But the people succeeded in reaching the
sea-wall--I saved them all! But I fancy I could not bear the cold and
the fright, and so I came up here to the gates of Paradise. I am told
they are opened to poor creatures like me--and now I have no house
left down upon the rampart: not that I think this will give me
admission here."

Then the gates of heaven were opened, and the angel led the old woman
in. She left a straw behind her, a straw that had been in her bed when
she set it on fire to save the lives of many; and this straw had been
changed into the purest gold--into gold that grew and grew, and spread
out into beauteous leaves and flowers.

[Illustration: DAME MARGERY FIRES HER BED FOR A BEACON.]

"Look, this is what the poor woman brought," said the angel to the
critic. "What dost _thou_ bring? I know that thou hast accomplished
nothing--thou hast not made so much as a single brick. Ah, if thou
couldst only return, and effect at least so much as that! Probably the
brick, when thou hadst made it, would not be worth much; but if it
were made with good-will, it would at least be _something_. But thou
canst not go back, and I can do nothing for thee!"

Then the poor soul, the old dame who had lived on the dyke, put in a
petition for him. She said,

"His brother gave me the bricks and the pieces out of which I built up
my house, and that was a great deal for a poor woman like me. Could
not all those bricks and pieces be counted as a single brick in his
favour? It was an act of mercy. He wants it now; and is not this the
very fountain of mercy?"

Then the angel said:

"Thy brother, him whom thou hast regarded as the least among you all,
he whose honest industry seemed to thee as the most humble, hath given
thee this heavenly gift. Thou shalt not be turned away. It shall be
vouchsafed to thee to stand here without the gate, and to reflect, and
repent of thy life down yonder; but thou shalt not be admitted until
thou hast in real earnest accomplished _something_."

"I could have said that in better words!" thought the critic, but he
did not find fault aloud; and for him, after all, that was
"SOMETHING!"

UNDER THE WILLOW TREE.

The region round the little town of Kjoege is very bleak and bare. The
town certainly lies by the sea shore, which is always beautiful, but
just there it might be more beautiful than it is: all around are