Possibly Miss Heatherly would not have admitted that she was wealthy, but certainly she would not have denied that she was "very comfortably off." She was considered a model of charity—one of those whose religion is "pure and undefiled." In the depths of her heart she thought so, too. She had known sorrow, and borne it well. She was sometimes lonely, yet never complained. She was invariably kind both to friends and dependents. The spiritual welfare of her servants was never neglected by her. Her public religious duties were faithfully fulfilled. She had been reading the last part of the twenty-fifth chapter of St. Matthew's Gospel, with a pleasant remembrance of the gifts of food and clothing she had that morning been distributing. Her heart thrilled with the sweetness of the thought that one day she should hear those blessed words addressed to herself,—"Inasmuch as thou hast done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, thou hast done it unto me." She looked round her room with a glow of satisfaction, appreciating her pretty things all the more because of the poverty and misery she had so lately witnessed. Perhaps Miss Heatherly had slept for two hours when she awoke with a start, for it seemed to her that somebody called her by name. She sat up in bed, surprised to see the room full of soft light, like moonlight, and, to her wonder and awe, a figure, clothed in white robes and crowned with thorns, standing in the midst—a figure so familiar to her thoughts, beautiful, majestic, and serene—the Lord she loved, the Lord who died for her. Miss Heatherly had often pictured to herself the first meeting with her Saviour. She had imagined that she would fall at his feet and kiss them in a transport of joy and rapture. She had imagined that he would smile approvingly on her, that he would raise her from the ground, and place her—who had given him so much, and served him so faithfully—close by his side in some position of honor. But now an overwhelming sense of sin and shortcoming made her cover her face with her hands when she met his grave, loving regard, while the self-abhorring cry of Peter rose involuntarily to her lips—"Depart from me, O Lord, for I am a sinful creature!" As if in answer to that cry, he spoke,—"Arise, follow me." The words were gently yet authoritatively spoken, and the trembling woman did not dream of disobeying or even questioning them. She rose from her bed, followed the luminous figure down the wide, velvet carpeted stairs, into the cold and empty street. In a few moments, as it seemed, they had left behind the wealthy suburb, and were in the center of the poorest quarter of the town. Miss Heatherly's Guide stopped at the door of a wretched, tumble-down house in a narrow alley. In spite of the fear and awe that possessed her, she noticed a drunken man, who, with many uncouth sounds and gestures, was barring the entrance against fancied intruders. As the two approached, he shrank back, cowering against the wall, covering his face with his hands—very much as Miss Heatherly had done. The alley and the house were alike familiar to the lady, so was the low, ruinous-looking attic, wherein she presently stood with her dread companion. She had been there that very morning to take a blanket for the poor, rheumatic old man who rented the miserable place. A sense of satisfaction stole into her mind as she remembered that gift and the grateful pleasure of the recipient. Why had she been afraid? Surely the Lord was about to commend her for her charity. The attic was very dark, but the radiance emanating from the figure of the Saviour fell full upon the pallet where the old man lay. It was bitterly cold. The broken window was stuffed with rags, but the wind and sleet, which had seemed to Miss Heatherly to cease when she was in the street, found only too free an entrance. The grate was empty, so was the cupboard. Cold and hungry the man had gone to bed, and, in spite of the blanket, he was evidently cold still. Obeying a motion of her Guide, Miss Heatherly approached the pallet. It consisted of a very old, torn, straw mattress, with the occupant's coat for pillow. "O my old bones! my poor, old, aching bones!" he muttered, shivering audibly; "'tis a bonnie bit o' blanket, and a rare kind thing of a lady like that to bring it to the likes o' me, but I thought as how blankets was warmer, surelie I did. Why, three on 'em would hardly keep my old bones warm. Eh, good Lord, if I could get a bit o' warmth into me, I'd not feel the hunger so much, maybe!" Before Miss Heatherly's eyes came a swift vision of her own luxurious room and bed. She felt the thick, soft warmth of the blankets—three of them, and the best that money could buy—the silken coverlet, the cozy eiderdown quilt. Then she saw again the poor pallet, covered with only the one thin, cheap blanket her charity had given to her brother's bitter need—saw and trembled. "Thou hast done it unto me!" her Guide said, not reproachfully, only sadly. Then he laid his hand on the old man's head, and his restless mutterings ceased. He had fallen asleep, and in his sleep he smiled. It was dawn when the two unseen visitors reissued into the street—cold, dark, winter dawn. The sleet had frozen on the pavement; the falling snow was blown into drifts by the piercing wind. This time Miss Heatherly was conscious of the cold—it went through and through; never had she experienced such a sensation before in all her warm, guarded life. She would fain have crept closer to her Guide, whose viewless presence brightened many a worn, sad face as he passed by, but she dared not. Her heart was breaking with a passion of love, longing, and remorse. How little, she thought, had she loved him before! How faithlessly she had served him! The praises of her bounty that she had heard, together with many others she had been wont to receive with outward deprecation and inward pride, were as so many wounds to her spirit. She to be praised for her charity? She? She dashed the hot tears from her eyes as the Conductor paused before a doorstep, where sat a small, puny child, holding a yet smaller, punier child in her arms. "I'm cold, Janie! I'm so cold!" wailed the latter over and over again in a kind of a monotonous chant. "I'm so cold!" "Oh, not cold, Bessie dear—not cold in them nice new clothes wot the lady give yer? Why, yer'd only rags afore!" "I am cold, I am!" insisted Bessie, "and you're cold, too, 'cause I feel yer ashivering." "Shivering? Not me! Why, I've a shawl on," trying ineffectually to draw the small knitted square that covered her shoulders further onto her blue arms. "I'm a bit tired, mebbe, 'cause yer 'eavy, Bess, but we ain't cold, you and me." "Oh, I am, I am! And so are you, Janie; you're ashivering wuss and wuss. The rags was warmer than these 'ere frocks." "Nay, now, Bess," said brave Janie, rising and preparing to carry her big baby again, "to talk o' rags, and you and me dressed like ladies! Oh, for shame on yer!" "Ladies! Miss 'Eatherly ain't dressed like this!" quoth Bessie, with contempt. "She's warm anuff, covered with fur like a pussy cat, and a big muff and a welwet gownd—" "I'll tell yer what, Bess, let's play at being grand ladies, and let's pretend we're very warm, and not a bit 'ungry; that'll be a jolly game. Then we'll go back 'ome, and mebbe father'll have got in by then, and'll be asleep, and mother'll find us a bit o' bread." Fain, fain would the conscience-stricken listener have shut out the sight that—as the child ceased speaking—rose before her. There were her ample wardrobes, her closets, and some yet unpacked boxes, full of the costliest mantles and dresses. Silks, satins, velvets, laces, and furs all were there. In themselves they represented a small fortune. For the first time in her life the wearer sickened of them, turning away in almost despair to the spectacle of the two children whom her charity had clothed. How thin, how poor, how ugly were the garments she had bestowed upon them! Well might their little limbs be cold. Well might Bessie disdain the notion of their being "dressed like ladies." And again, with solemn emphasis, the Lord spoke:—
"Thou hast done it unto me."218 Then he laid his pierced hand on the childish heads, and blessed them. As he did so, a city missionary came up to the two, who had begun to laugh and play merrily, and took them off with him to "give them some breakfast"—half wondering at the sudden glow of pleasure that filled his own heart. It was no rare thing for him to give away half his breakfast, or the whole of it, indeed, to some starving fellow-creature. Quick as thought the scene changed, and Miss Heatherly found herself in her own house. Her Guide was still with her. From room to room she followed him, compelled to note every useless or costly article, and seemed at the same time to see a dark background of rainy streets, of fireless attics, of bare rooms and wretched cellars, wherein the Lord himself wandered homeless, lay in sickness, suffered hunger, calling for help—in vain. It was like a sword in her heart when that accusing voice spoke for the last time:—
"I gave thee all, and what hast thou given me in return? Thou hast spread a rich feast for thyself, and given me the cold remnants. Thou hast glorified self, and not thy Saviour. Lookest thou for reward? Yea, thou shalt have it. A day is coming when thou shalt indeed hear the longed-for words which thou never thoughtest might condemn. Inasmuch as thou hast done it unto one of the least of these, my brethren, thou hast done it unto me." With an exceeding bitter cry the remorseful woman fell upon her knees, catching wildly at the Lord's white robes as he was about to turn away.
"Oh, don't go! Oh, don't leave me in displeasure! Give me one more chance," she cried, her tears bathing his feet. "O Lord, I have lived for self; I see it, I feel it now! But thou knowest all things; thou knowest that I love thee." Her voice broke in a choking sob, but still she gazed up in an agony of entreaty at the divine face, which, as she gazed, softened into a smile of such sweet forgiveness, such tender love, that it flooded her inmost soul with the very light of heaven. No words were needed; Lucy Heatherly knew herself forgiven—as only the crucified Jesus forgives—"all that debt." Then, clasping her hands while still kneeling at his feet, she mutely offered to him her wealth, her time, her life, her all—without one reserve—and besought him of his mercy to accept the gift. Once more he smiled, and in the glory of that ineffable sunshine Miss Heatherly awoke. Behold, it was a dream!—Quiver.