greet him.

"Oh! who keeps my house warm?" cried Love. And he looked, and saw one in
a little gown of green, (green for hope, Sweetheart; oh! green for
hope!) mending the fire, and singing as she worked.

"Who are you, who keep my house?" asked Love.

"Kindness is my name!" said the little housekeeper.

"Outside it is cold and empty," said Love, "and the wind blows over the
waste; may I come in and warm me by the fire?"

"Oh! and welcome!" said Kindness. "It was for you I kept it."

"My red robe is torn and draggled," said Love. "May I wrap me in the
gown you are making?"

"Oh! and welcome," said Kindness. "It is for you it was making, and now
it is finished."

Love bent over the fire and warmed his poor cold hands.

"Oh!" he cried; "now that I am back in my house I would never leave it
again. But what of my wings, lest they put the flight in me once more?"

"Suppose I clip them," said Kindness, "with my little scissors!"

"How are your scissors called, dear?"

"Peace-and-Comfort is their name!" said Kindness.

So Kindness clipped the wings of Love; and this one swept the hearth,
and that one mended the fire, and all went well while they kept the
house together.

BROTHER BARNABAS

One came to Brother Barnabas seeking consolation.

"Ah!" said the good Brother. "My heart bleeds for you. You are in
affliction, bereft of some one dearer, it may be, than life itself. My
sympathy--"

"No!" said the man. "My friends, such as they are, are all living."

"I see!" said Brother Barnabas. "Bodily pain has set its sharp tooth in
you; that is indeed hard to bear. Let me--"

"No!" said the man. "I am in good health, so far as that goes."

"Alas!" said Brother Barnabas. "My poor brother, then it is sin that
weighs upon you, the cruellest burden of all. Truly, I grieve for you."

"What do you mean?" said the man. "I have never broken a commandment in
my life."

"Ah!" said Brother Barnabas. "I begin to perceive--"

"I was sure you would!" said the man. "I am misunderstood--"

"_Not by me!_" said Brother Barnabas. "Begone!" and he shut the door on
him.

THE FATES

The high Fates sat weaving, weaving at their loom, and I, poor soul,
came crying at the door, asking a boon at their hands.

Those great ladies did not turn their heads, nor stint the flying
shuttle; but one of them spoke, and she the youngest, and her voice was
like the wind over the sea.

"What would you?" she said.

And I