there will be a day when they will come back on white wings or dark like
a cloud of witnesses--"

The man stopped, his voice died away softly, and he stared into the
blaze with solemn eyes, as if he saw a vision. The boy, suddenly aware
again of the strong hand on his shoulder, leaned against it lovingly,
and the fire, talking unconcernedly on, was for a long time the only
sound in the warmth and stillness and luxury of the great room which
held two souls at peace.

* * * * *

At that hour, with the volume of Browne under his outstretched hand, his
thin gray hair resting against the worn cloth of the chair, in the bare
little study, the old clergyman slept. And as he slept, a wonderful
dream came to him. He thought that he had gone from this familiar, hard
world, and stood, in his old clothes, with his old discouraged soul, in
the light of the infinitely glorious Presence, where he must surely
stand at last. And the question was asked him, wordlessly, solemnly:

"Child of mine, what have you made of the life given you?" And he looked
down humbly at his shabby self, and answered:

"Lord, nothing. My life is a failure. I worked all day in God's garden,
and my plants were twisted and my roses never bloomed. For all my
fighting, the weeds grew thicker. I could not learn to make the good
things grow, I tried to work rightly, Lord, my Master, but I must have
done it all wrong."

And as he stood sorrowful, with no harvest sheaves to offer as witnesses