“I think it makes you know,” said the older man, slowly, “that not your least thought is unimportant; that the radiance of your character shines for good or evil where you go.  Our thoughts, our influences, are like birds that fly from us as we walk along the road; one by one, we open our hands and loose them, and they are gone and forgotten, but surely there will be a day when they will come back on white wings or dark like a cloud of witnesses—­”

The man stopped, his voice died away softly, and he stared into the blaze with solemn eyes, as if he saw a vision.  The boy, suddenly aware again of the strong hand on his shoulder, leaned against it lovingly, and the fire, talking unconcernedly on, was for a long time the only sound in the warmth and stillness and luxury of the great room which held two souls at peace.

* * * * *

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.