The confession was wrung from him; more and more the man felt dazzled and overpowered by the pure light of heaven; he seemed falling into a measureless abyss, the abyss of his own nakedness and unworthiness.  Shrunk into himself, humbled, cast out, unripe for the kingdom of heaven, shuddering at the thought of the just and holy God—­hardly dared he to gasp out, “Mercy!”

And the face of the Angel at the portal was turned toward him in softening pity.  “Mercy is for them who implore it, not claim it; there is Mercy also for thee.  Turn thee, child of man, turn thee back the way thou camest to thy clayey tabernacle; in pity is it given thee to dwell in dust yet a little while.  Be no longer righteous in thine own eyes, copy Him who with patience endured the contradiction of sinners, strive and pray that thou mayest become poor in spirit, and so mayest thou yet inherit the Kingdom.”

“Holy, loving, glorious forever shalt thou be, O, erring human spirit!”—­thus rang the chorus of Angels.  And again overpowered by those transcendent melodies, dazzled and blinded by that excess of purest light, the Soul again shrank back into itself.  It seemed to be falling an infinite depth; the celestial music grew fainter and fainter, till common earthly sights and sounds dispelled the vision.  The rays of the early morning sun falling full on his face, the cheerful crow of the vigilant cock, called the sleeper up to pray.

Inexpressibly humbled, yet thankful, he arose and knelt beside his bed.  “Thou, who hast shown me to myself, help me now, that I may not only do justly, but love mercy, and walk humbly with my God.  Thou, who hast convicted me of sin, now purify me, strengthen me, that, though ever unworthy of Thy presence, I may yet, supported by Thy Love, dare to ascend into Thine ever lasting light!”

The Vision was his; be the lesson, the prayer, also ours.

THE OLD GRAVESTONE

By HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

In one of our small trading towns, at that time of year when folk say “The evenings grow long,” a whole family was assembled together.  The air was still mild and warm; the lamp was lighted, the long curtains hung down before the windows, and bright moonlight prevailed without.  They were talking about a big old stone that lay down in the yard, close by the kitchen door, where the servants often placed the kitchen utensils, after they had been cleaned, to dry in the sun, and where the children were fond of playing; it was, in fact, an old gravestone.

“Yes,” said the master of the house, “I believe it comes from the old ruined convent chapel; pulpit and gravestones, with all their epitaphs, were sold; my late father bought several of these; the others were broken into paving-stones, but this one was left unused, lying in the yard.”

“It is easy to know it for a gravestone,” said the eldest of the children.  “You can still see on it an mountain-sides and a piece of an angel, but the inscription is almost quite worn out, except the name ‘Preben,’ and a capital ‘S’ a little further on, and underneath it ‘Martha,’ but it is impossible to make out any more, and that you can only read after if has been raining, or when we have washed it.”