rt of every respectable----"

"Wait," said the Keeper of the Gate again. "Were not all these
carefully recorded on earth where they would add to your credit? They
were not foolishly done. Verily, you have had your reward for them.
Would you be paid twice?"

"No," cried the man, with deepening dismay, "I dare not claim that. I
acknowledge that I considered my own interest too much. But surely not
altogether. You have said that these things were not foolishly done.
They accomplished some good in the world. Does not that count for
something?"

"Yes," answered the Keeper of the Gate, "it counts in the world--where
you counted it. But it does not belong to you here. We have saved and
used 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 labours
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