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.
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