"Tell me, then," he cried, brokenly, "since my life has been so
little worth, how came I here at all?"

"Through the mercy of the King"--the answer was like the soft
tolling of
a bell.

"And how have I earned it?" he murmured.

"It is never earned; it is only given," came the clear, low
reply.

"But how have I failed so wretchedly," he asked, "in all the
purpose of
my life? What could I have done better? What is it that counts
here?"

"Only that which is truly given," answered the bell-like voice.
Only that good which is done for the love of doing it.
Only those plans in which the welfare of others is the master
thought.
Only those labors in which the sacrifice is greater than the
reward.
Only those gifts in which the giver forgets himself."

The man lay silent. A great weakness, an unspeakable despondency
and
humiliation were upon him. But the face of the Keeper of the
Gate was
infinitely tender as he bent over him.