"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
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.
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