team, to which thousands of stout arms and brawny
sinews kept time. And far beyond these, out on the quiet hills, the
scene terminated in a Marble City,[1] where, beneath trees of centuries
growth, its inhabitants slumber silently through the long, cold night
of death, until the revivifying beams of the resurrection day shall
dawn on the earth-mantle that wraps their clay. But over all shone the
glad beauty of the day. It poured down its effulgence alike on the
city of the dead and the city of the living! Mr. Stillinghast had not
looked on the like for years, long, dusty, dreary years; and he felt a
tingling in his heart--a presence of banished memories, an expansion of
soul, which softened and silenced him, while gradually it lifted from
his countenance the harsh, ugly mask he usually wore.

"Here we are," said the man, pointing to old Mabel's cottage; "this is
the place."

Then it occurred to Mr. Stillinghast, for the first time, that he had
come there without any particular object in view--he had obeyed an
impulse which he did not pause to analyze, and now, somewhat
embarrassed he stood still, uncertain what to do.

"You may return," he said to the man, to whom he gave a dollar; "this
will pay you for the time you have lost." The man thanked him, and
went his way, rejoicing in the reward of such pleasant and easy labor.

"Why not go in?" he murmured, "I am here on a fool's errand, after all.
But why not enter? If this old beggar is so destitute, I can leave her
something to buy a loaf; but what business is it of mine? A plague on
it all! What do I here--_why_ are you here, Mark Stillinghast?" Then
he opened the door very softly, and, as he did so, he heard these words
repeated in a clear, sweet voice,--"_For what shall it profit a man, if
he gains the whole world, and lose his own soul!_" then he saw May
seated beside the old negro, reading from some pious, instructive book,
of Christian doctrine. And those words came ringing down into his soul
like the blast of ten thousand trumpets! He staggered back; his old,
withered cheek, grew pallid, and he turned away and fled--but they
pursued him. "Profit--gain--loss. Profit--gain--loss.
Profit--gain--loss. I understand them!" he gasped. "_I_ have heaped
up gains; of earthly profit I have my share; and now, at the eleventh
hour, it is summed up, and what is it--yes, what is it? IT IS LOSS.
For all that is mortal, I have toiled my best hours away; for all