Gladys smiled.

’No, that is not right, but wrong, very wrong, and punishment always follows.  Heaven helps those who help themselves; don’t you remember that?’

’Ay, well, I don’t understand your theology, I confess.  But we may as well think it out.  What do you suppose will become of me after I shuffle off, eh?’

‘I don’t know, uncle.  You best know what your own hope is,’ she replied.

’I have no hope, and I don’t see myself how anybody can presume to have any.  It’s all conjecture about a future life.  How does anybody know?  Nobody has ever come back to tell the tale.’

’No; but we know, all the same, that there are many mansions in heaven, and that God has prepared them for His children.’

‘You would not call me one of them, I guess?’ said the old man, with a touch of sarcasm, yet there was something behind—­a great wistfulness, a consuming anxiety, which betrayed itself in his very eye, as he awaited her reply.  It was a curious moment, a curious scene.  The old, toilworn, world-weary man, who had spent his days in the most sordid pursuit of gold—­gold for which he would at one time almost have sold his soul, hanging on the words of a young, untried maiden, whose purity enabled her to touch the very gates of heaven.  It was a sight to make the philosopher ponder anew on the mysteries of life, and the strange anomalies human nature presents.

She turned her sweet face to him, and there was a mixture of pathos and brightness in her glance.

‘Why not, uncle?  I may not judge.  It is God who knows the heart.’

’Ay, maybe.  But what would you think yourself?  You have shrewd enough eyes, though you are so quiet.’

’But I cannot know this, uncle; only if you believe that Christ died for you, you are one of God’s children, though’—­she added, with a slight hesitation—­’you may not have served Him very well.’

‘Then you think I have not served Him, eh?’ he repeated, with strange persistence.

’Perhaps you might have done more, uncle.  If you get better you will do more for others, I feel sure,’ she said.  ’But now you must be still and keep quiet.  I shall not talk another word to you, positively not a word.’

‘Ay,’ he said dryly, and, turning on his pillow, closed his eyes—­not to sleep, oh no, brain and heart were too full of conflicting and disturbing thought.

In the dull hours of the early morning Gladys dozed a little in her chair, imagining the sick man slept.  When the light grew broader she roused herself, and began to move about with swift but noiseless steps, fearing to awake him.  But he did not sleep.  Lying there, with his face turned to the wall, Abel Graham held counsel with himself, reviewing his life, which lay before him like a tale that is told.  None knew better than he what a poor, mean, sordid, selfish life it had been, how little it had contributed to the good or the happiness of others, and these