ground, and the little dog licked his hands in vain to awaken him.

There is a band of angels who each night descend the holy mount
whereon is built the city, in search of such pilgrims as have failed
through fatigue to reach the gate. They are clothed in robes woven of
good deeds, which never lose their lustre, for they are renewed every
day. It was this company which found Jacques in his swoon by the
roadside. One gently touched his tired body, and more than the vigor
of youth leapt through his veins. Another whispered "Come," and he
rose and walked with them. As he moved on with eyes abashed, thinking
of the rents in his garments and regretting their poverty, he noticed
that they too were changed, and were as bright as those of his
companions. "Who has done this?" he said, venturing to address the
one that walked at his right hand. "You wore them always," he answered
with an angelic smile, "but it is this light which shows their
beauty;" and he pointed to that which streamed from the celestial
walls.

There was much applause. I saw Afra wipe a tear from her eye; only, a
thin-faced individual who sat near me whispered that it was too long.
The delicacy and pathos of expression and language it is impossible
to give, and, though old in form, the story was skillfully new in
incident; nor must I forget that the little dog slipped through the
eternal gate with his master. Some one asked the troubadour why he
did not write it out. He shook his head and threw up his hands as
he replied, "I wrote one book and gave it to a literary man for
correction. You should have seen the manuscript when he sent it home:
not a page but was scarred and cut. He called that 'style.' Now, what
did I want with style? I wanted to write as I talked."