very much to see my
mansion here, if only for a moment. I believe that you have one for
me. Will you take me to it?"

The Keeper of the Gate drew a little book from the breast of his robe
and turned over the pages.

"Certainly," he said, with a curious look at the man, "your name is
here; and you shall see your mansion if you will follow me."

It seemed as if they must have walked miles and miles, through the vast
city, passing street after street of houses larger and smaller, of
gardens richer and poorer, but all full of beauty and delight.

They came into a kind of suburb, where there were many small cottages,
with plots of flowers, very lowly, but bright and fragrant. Finally
they reached an open field, bare and lonely-looking. There were two or
three little bushes in it, without flowers, and the grass was sparse
and thin. In the center of the field was a tiny hut, hardly big enough
for a shepherd's shelter. It looked as if it had been built of
discarded things, scraps and fragments of other buildings, put together
with care and pains, by some one who had tried to make the most of
cast-off material.

There was something pitiful and shamefaced about the hut. It shrank
and drooped and faded in its barren field, and seemed to cling only by
sufferance to the edge of the splendid city.

"This," said the Keeper of the Gate, standing still and speaking with a
low, distinct voice--"this is your mansion, John Weightman."

An almost intolerable shock of grieved wonder and indignation choked
the man for a moment so that he could not say a word. Then he turned
his face away from the poor little hut and began to remonstrate eagerly
with his companion.

"Surely, sir," he stammered, "you must be in error about this. There
is something wrong--some other John Weightman--a confusion of
names--the book must be mistaken."

"There is no mistake," said the Keeper of the Gate, very calmly; "here
is your name, the record of your title and your possessions in this
place."

"But how could such a house be prepared for me," cried the man, with a
resentful tremor in his voice--"for me, after my long and faithful
service? Is this a suitable mansion for one so well known and devoted?
Why is it so pitifully small and mean? Why have you not built it large
and fair, like the others?"

"That is all the material you sent us."

"What!"

"We have used all the material that you sent us," repeated the Keeper
of the Gate.

"No