And with these humble, gentle folk I forgot the rich man’s coldness, and healed my heart’s wounds.  Life was made beautiful again.  To-morrow the sun would be as bright as ever.

I slept in the comfortable warm bed on the floor of the poor peasant’s hut, and the storm rolled overhead, the winds moaned and the rain fell.

“You are going to Jerusalem,” said the good man and woman next morning, “pray for us there.  It is hard for us to leave our little hut and farm, or we would go to the Holy Land ourselves.  We should like to go to the place where the Christ was born in Bethlehem and to the place where He died.”

“I shall pray,” I said; and I thought in my heart, “They are there in Jerusalem all the time, even though they remain here.  For they show hospitality to strangers.”

* * * * *

But as I trudged along my way there seemed to be a pathos too deep for tears underlying my experiences at the hands of the rich man and of the poor man.

That it should occur so in real life, and not merely in a moral tale!

The position of the rich man is so defensible.  Of course it would have been ridiculous of him to have sheltered me.  Who was I?  I had no introduction.  What was I?  I might have robbed him in the night ... or murdered.  I was ill-dressed and poor, therefore no doubt covetous of his fine clothes and wealth.  They would only have themselves to blame if they sheltered me and I did them harm.  Besides, was there not the tavern close by?  All reason pointed to the tavern.

But something troubled them, something in my face and demeanour!

Alas for such people!  They forget that Christ comes into this world not clothed in purple.  They forget that Christ is always walking on the road, and that he shows himself as one needing help.  And always once in a man’s life the pilgrim Christ comes knocking at his door, with the pack of man’s sorrows on his back and in his hand the staff which may be a cross.

* * * * *

I met the young officer in white next morning.  He looked at me with a certain amount of surprise.  I hailed him.

“Did you sleep well at the tavern?” he asked.

“I found shelter at a peasant’s house,” I answered.

“Ah!  That’s well.  I didn’t think of that.  You said you were going to Jerusalem.  Why is that?  Evidently you are not Russian.”

I told him somewhat of my plans.  He seemed interested and somewhat vexed.  “I said we ought to have taken you in,” he said apologetically.  “But you came so late—­’like a thief in the night,’ as the Scripture saith.”

I sat down on a stone and laughed and laughed.  He stared at me in perplexity.

“‘Like a thief in the night,’” I cried out.  “Oh, how came you to hit on that expression?  Go on, please—­’and I knew you not.’  Who is it who cometh as a thief in the night?”