the king and saw that his face was twisted
with agony: then he knew that somewhere an evil deed of his own had
been turned to good. And even while he looked the whips began to fall
mercilessly from all sides and the king, frantic with agony, cried
out:

"Tear aside the veil. Let him see."

In an instant the whips ceased to fall and the man with the dead soul
saw all the Earth before him--and understood. A generation had passed
since he had gone, but his keen eye sought and found his wealth. The
finger of God had touched it and behold good had sprung from it
everywhere. It was building temples to the mighty God where the poor
could worship; and the hated Cross met his eye wherever he looked,
dazzling his vision and blinding him with its light. Wherever the
Finger of God glided the good came forth; the hungry were nourished,
the naked clothed, the frozen warmed and the truth preached. Before
him was the good growing from his impotent evil every moment and
multiplying as it grew; and behind him he heard the howls of the
tortured demons and the impatient hisses of the whips that hungered
for his back.

Shuddering he closed his eyes, but a voice ringing on the air made him
open them again. The voice was strangely like his own, yet purified
and sweet with sincerity and goodness. It was singing the "Miserere,"
and the words beat him backward to the demons as they arose.

He caught a glimpse of the singer, a young man clad in a brown habit
of penance with the cord of purity girt about him. His eyes looked
once into the eyes of the man with the dead soul. They were the eyes
of the one to whom he had left his legacy of hate and wealth and
evil--his own and his only son.

Shuddering, the man with the dead soul awoke from his dream, and
behold, he was lying in the desert where the gold tempted him from out
of the great rocks and the diamonds shone in the sunlight. He looked
at them not at all, but straightway he went to where good men sang the
"Miserere" and were clad in brown robes. And as he went it came to
pass that his dead soul leaped in the joy of a new resurrection.

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A DOLLAR

I was born in a beautiful city on the banks of a charming river, the
capital of a great nation. Unlike humans, I can remember no childhood,
though it is said that I had a formative period in the care of artists
whose brains conceived the beauty of my face and whose hands realized
the glory of their dreams. But to t