But when she opened the door, a monk came in who had his cowl pulled over his head to shelter him from the storm.  The widow was much disconcerted at having kept one of the brotherhood waiting, and loudly apologized, but the monk stopped her, saying, “I fear I cut short your evening meal, my daughter.”

“Now in the name of ill-luck, how came he to guess that?” thought the widow, as with anxious civility she pressed the monk to take some supper after his walk; for the good woman always felt hospitably inclined towards any one who was likely to return her kindness sevenfold.

The brother, however, refused to sup; and as he seated himself the widow looked sharply through her spectacles to see if she could gather from any distention of the folds of his frock whether a loaf, a bottle of cordial, or a new winter’s cloak were most likely to crown the visit.  No undue protuberance being visible about the monk’s person, she turned her eyes to his face, and found that her visitor was one of the brotherhood whom she had not seen before.  And not only was his face unfamiliar, it was utterly unlike the kindly but rough countenances of her charitable patrons.  None that she had ever seen boasted the noble beauty, the chiselled and refined features of the monk before her.  And she could not but notice that, although only one rushlight illumined her room, and though the monk’s cowl went far to shade him even from that, yet his face was lit up as if by light from within, so that his clear skin seemed almost transparent.  In short, her curiosity must have been greatly stirred, had not greed made her more anxious to learn what he had brought than who he was.

“It’s a terrible night,” quoth the monk, at length.  “Such tempest without only gives point to the indoor comforts of the wealthy; but it chills the very marrow of the poor and destitute.”

“Aye, indeed,” sniffed the widow, with a shiver.  “If it were not for the charity of good Christians, what would poor folk do for comfort on such an evening as this?”

“It was that very thought, my daughter,” said the monk, with a sudden earnestness on his shining face, “that brought me forth even now through the storm to your cottage.”

“Heaven reward you!” cried the widow, fervently.

“Heaven does reward the charitable!” replied the monk.  “To no truth do the Scriptures bear such constant and unbroken witness; even as it is written:  ’He that hath pity upon the poor lendeth unto the Lord; and look, what he layeth out it shall be paid him again.’”

“What a blessed thing it must be to be able to do good!” sighed the widow, piously wishing in her heart that the holy man would not delay to earn his recompense.