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Page 17
* * * * *
At that hour, with the volume of Browne under his outstretched hand, his
thin gray hair resting against the worn cloth of the chair, in the bare
little study, the old clergyman slept. And as he slept, a wonderful
dream came to him. He thought that he had gone from this familiar, hard
world, and stood, in his old clothes, with his old discouraged soul, in
the light of the infinitely glorious Presence, where he must surely
stand at last. And the question was asked him, wordlessly, solemnly:
"Child of mine, what have you made of the life given you?" And he looked
down humbly at his shabby self, and answered:
"Lord, nothing. My life is a failure. I worked all day in God's garden,
and my plants were twisted and my roses never bloomed. For all my
fighting, the weeds grew thicker. I could not learn to make the good
things grow, I tried to work rightly, Lord, my Master, but I must have
done it all wrong."
And as he stood sorrowful, with no harvest sheaves to offer as witnesses
for his toiling, suddenly back of him he heard a marvellous, many-toned,
soft whirring, as of innumerable light wings, and over his head flew a
countless crowd of silver-white birds, and floated in the air beyond.
And as he gazed, surprised, at their loveliness, without speech again it
was said to him:
"My child, these are your witnesses. These are the thoughts and the
influences which have gone from your mind to other minds through the
years of your life." And they were all pure white.
And it was borne in upon him, as if a bandage had been lifted from his
eyes, that character was what mattered in the great end; that success,
riches, environment, intellect, even, were but the tools the master gave
into his servants' hands, and that the honesty of the work was all they
must answer for. And again he lifted his eyes to the hovering white
birds, and with a great thrill of joy it came to him that he had his
offering, too, he had this lovely multitude for a gift to the Master;
and, as if the thought had clothed him with glory, he saw his poor black
clothes suddenly transfigured to shining garments, and, with a shock, he
felt the rush of a long-forgotten feeling, the feeling of youth and
strength, beating in a warm glow through his veins. With a sigh of deep
happiness, the old man awoke.
A log had fallen, and turning as it fell, the new surface had caught
life from the half-dead ashes, and had blazed up brightly, and the
warmth was penetrating gratefully through him. The old clergyman
smiled, and held his thin hands to the flame as he gazed into the fire,
but the wonder and awe of his dream were in his eyes.
"My beautiful white birds!" he said, aloud, but softly. "Mine! They were
out of sight, but they were there all the time. Surely the dream was
sent from Heaven--surely the Lord means me to believe that my life has
been of service after all." And as he still gazed, with rapt face, into
his study fire, he whispered: "Angels came and ministered unto him."
THE DIAMOND BROOCHES
The room was filled with signs of breeding and cultivation; it was
bare of the things which mean money. Books were everywhere; family
portraits, gone brown with time, hung on the walls; a tall silver
candlestick gleamed from a corner; there was the tarnished gold of
carved Florentine frames, such as people bring still from Italy. But
the furniture-covering was faded, the carpet had been turned, the
place itself was the small parlor of a cheap apartment, and the
wall-paper was atrocious. The least thoughtful, listening for a moment
to that language which a room speaks of those who live in it, would
have known this at once as the home of well-bred people who were very
poor.
So quiet it was that it seemed empty. If an observer had stood in the
doorway, it might have been a minute before he saw that a man sat in
front of the fireless hearth with his arms stretched before him on the
table and his head fallen into them. For many minutes there was no
sound, no stir of the man's nerveless pose; it might have been that he
was asleep. Suddenly the characterless silence of the place was flooded
with tragedy, for the man groaned, and a child would have known that the
sound came from a torn soul. He lifted his face--a handsome, high-bred
face, clever, a bit weak,--and tears were wet on his cheeks. He glanced
about as if fearing to be seen as he wiped them away, and at the moment
there was a light bustle, low voices down the hall. The young man sprang
to his feet and stood alert as a step came toward him. He caught a sharp
breath as another man, iron-gray, professional, stood in the doorway.
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