They came into a kind of suburb, where there were many small cottages, with plots of flowers, very lowly, but bright and fragrant.
Finally they reached an open field, bare and lonely-looking.
There were two or three little bushes in it, without flowers, and the grass was sparse and thin.In the center of the field was a tiny hut, hardly big enough for a shepherd's shelter.
It looked as if it had been built of discarded things, scraps andfragments of other buildings, put together with care and pains, by some one who had tried to make the most of cast-off material.
There was something pitiful and shamefaced about the hut.
It shrank and drooped and faded in its barren field, and seemed to cling only by sufferance to the edge of the splendid city.
"This," said the Keeper of the Gate, standing still and speaking with a low, distinct voice--"this is your mansion, John Weightman."An almost intolerable shock of grieved wonder and indignation choked the man for a moment so that he could not say a word.
Then he turned his face away from the poor little hut and began to remonstrate eagerly with his companion.
"Surely, sir," he stammered, "you must be in error about this.
There is something wrong--some other John Weightman--a confusion of names--the book must be mistaken.""There is no mistake," said the Keeper of the Gate, very calmly;"here is your name, the record of your title and your possessionsin this place.""But how could such a house be prepared for me," cried the man, with a resentful tremor in his voice--"for me, after my long and faithful service? Is this a suitable mansion for one so well known and devoted? Why is it so pitifully small and mean?
Why have you not built it large and fair, like the others?""That is all the material you sent us.""What!"
"We have used all the material that you sent us," repeated the Keeper of the Gate.
"Now I know that you are mistaken," cried the man, with growing earnestness, "for all my life long I have been doing things that must have supplied you with material.Have you not heard that I have built a school-house; the wing of a hospital; two--yes, three--small churches, and the greater part of a large one, the spire of St.Petro--"The Keeper of the Gate lifted his hand.
"Wait," he said; "we know all these things.They were not ill done.
But they were all marked and used as foundation for the name and mansion of John Weightman in the world.Did you not plan them for that?""Yes," answered the man, confused and taken aback, "I confess that I thought often of them in that way.Perhaps my heart was set upon that too much.But there are other things--my endowment for the college--my steady and liberal contributions to all the established charities--my support of every respectable--""Wait," said the Keeper of the Gate again."Were not all these carefully recorded on earth where they would add to your credit?
They were not foolishly done.Verily, you have had your reward for them.
Would you be paid twice?"
"No," cried the man, with deepening dismay, "I dare not claim that.
I acknowledge that I considered my own interest too much.But surely not altogether.You have said that these things were not foolishly done.
