pitied the poor cripple; many looked upon him with feelings of
disgust and repulsion; but few, if any, sought to do him good.

Not far from where the cripple lived was a man who had been
bedridden for years, and who was likely to remain so to the end of
his days. He was supported by the patient industry of a wife.

"If good works are the only passport to heaven," he said to a
neighbor one day, "I fear my chances will be small."

"'Well done, good and faithful servant,' is the language of
welcome," was replied; and the neighbor looked at the sick man in a
way that made him feel a little uncomfortable.

"I am sick and bedridden--what can I do?" he spoke, fretfully.

"When little is given, little is required. But if there be only a
single talent it must be improved."

"I have no talent," said the invalid.

"Are you sure of that?"

"What can I do? Look at me! No health, no strength, no power to rise
from this bed. A poor, helpless creature, burdening my wife. Better
for me, and for all, if I were in my grave."

"If that were so you would be in your grave. But God knows best.
There is something for you to do, or you would be no longer
permitted to live," said the neighbor.