ay find thee in Heaven, not by
mistake," said the priest. "But if so, Daniel, thou must have a care to
go the right road thither."

"Which road's that, Father?"

"It is a straight road, my son, and it is a narrow road. And the door
to it goes right through the cross whereon Jesus Christ died for thee
and me. Daniel, dost thou love the Lord Jesus?"

"Well, you see, Father, I'm not much acquaint wi' Him. He's a great way
up, and I'm down here i' t' smithy."

"He will come down here and abide with thee, my son, if thou wilt but
ask Him. So dear He loveth man, that He will come any whither on earth
save into sin, if so be He may have man's company. `Greater than this
love hath no man, that he give his life for his friends.'"

"Well, that stands to reason," said Dan. "When man gives his life, he
gives all there is of him."

"Thou sayest well. And is it hard to love man that giveth his life to
save thine?"

"I reckon it 'd be harder to help it, Father."

Father Thomas turned as if to go. "My son," said he, "wilt thou let the
Lord Jesus say to the angels round His Throne,--`I gave all there was of
Me for Daniel Greensmith, and he doth not love Me for it?'"

The big smith had never had such an idea presented to him before. His
simple, transparent, child-like nature came up into his eyes, and ran
over. Men did not think it in those earlier ages any discredit to their
manliness to let their hearts be seen. Perhaps they were wiser than we
are.

"Eh, Father, but you never mean it'd be like that?" cried poor Dan.
"Somehow, it never come real to me, like as you've put it. Do you mean
'at He _cares_--that it makes any matter to Him up yonder, whether old
Dan at t' smithy loves Him or not? I'm no-but a common smith. There's
hundreds just like me. Does He really care, think you?"

"Thou art a man," said the priest, "and it was for men Christ died. And
there is none other of thee, though there were millions like thee. Is a
true mother content with any babe in exchange for her own, because there
are hundreds of babes in the world? Nay, Daniel Greensmith, it was for
thee the Lord Christ shed His blood on the cruel cross, and it is
thyself whose love and thanksgivings He will miss, though all the harps
of all the angels make music around His ear. Shall He miss them any
longer, my son?"

Once more Dan threw aside the big hammer--this time on the inner side of
the smithy.

"Father," said he, "you've knocke