w I know that you are mistaken," cried the man, with growing
earnestness, "for all my life long I have been doing things that must
have supplied you with material. Have you not heard that I have built
a school-house; the wing of a hospital; two--yes, three--small
churches, and the greater part of a large one, the spire of St. Petro--"

The Keeper of the Gate lifted his hand.

"Wait," he said; "we know all these things. They were not ill done.
But they were all marked and used as foundation for the name and
mansion of John Weightman in the world. Did you not plan them for
that?"

"Yes," answered the man, confused and taken aback, "I confess that I
thought often of them in that way. Perhaps my heart was set upon that
too much. But there are other things--my endowment for the college--my
steady and liberal contributions to all the established charities--my
support 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 he 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