"And how have I earned it?" he murmured.
"It is never earned; it is only given," came the clear, low reply.
"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."