here?"

"Only that which is truly given," answered the bell-like voice. "Only
that good which is done for the love of doing it. Only those plans in
which the welfare of others is the master thought. Only those labors
in which the sacrifice is greater than the reward. Only those gifts in
which the giver forgets himself."

The man lay silent. A great weakness, an unspeakable despondency and
humiliation were upon him. But the face of the Keeper of the Gate was
infinitely tender as he bent over him.

"Think again, John Weightman. Has there been nothing like that in your
life?"

"Nothing," he sighed. "If there ever were such things, it must have
been long ago--they were all crowded out--I have forgotten them."

There was an ineffable smile on the face of the Keeper of the Gate, and
his hand made the sign of the cross over the bowed head as he spoke
gently:

"These are the things that the King never forgets; and because there
were a few of them in your life, you have a little place here."

The sense of coldness and hardness under John Weightman's hands grew
sharper and more distinct. The feeling of bodily weariness and
lassitude weighed upon him, but there was a calm, almost a lightness,
in his heart as he listened to the fading vibrations of the silvery
bell-tones. The chimney clock on the mantel had just ended the last
stroke of seven as he lifted his head from the table. Thin, pale
strips of the city morning were falling into the room through the
narrow partings of the heavy curtains.

What was it that had happened to him? Had he been ill? Had he died
and come to life again? Or had he only slept, and had his soul gone
visiting in dreams? He sat for some time, motionless, not lost, but
finding himself in thought. Then he took a narrow book from the table
drawer, wrote a check, and tore it out.

He went slowly up the stairs, knocked very softly at his son's door,
and, hearing no answer, entered without noise. Harold was asleep, his
bare arm thrown above his head, and his eager face relaxed in peace.
His father looked at him a moment with strangely shining eyes, and then
tiptoed quietly to the writing-desk, found a pencil and a sheet of
paper, and wrote rapidly:

"My dear boy, here is what you asked me for; do what you like with it,
and ask for more if you need it. If you are still thinking of that
work with Grenfell, we'll talk it over to-day after church. I want to
know your heart better; an