# Life Is Worth Living and Other Stories/God is Love

GOD IS LOVE.
GOD IS LOVE.
In a certain town there lived a shoemaker named Martin Avdeitch. His shop was in the basement of the house, and had only one window, which looked out upon the street. Through this narrow opening he could see only the feet of the passers-by, but by their shoes he could nearly always recognize the wearers.
Martin's business had been long established, and he knew almost every one in the town. There was scarcely any one in the vicinity whose shoes he had not handled one or more times. On some of them he had put new soles, others he had patched in many places, while on many he had put new uppers.
Thus he was enabled many times each day to see his own handiwork through the window. ​He did good work, using the most durable materials, for which he charged reasonable prices; but, above all, he always kept his promise. If it was possible for him to accomplish a given work by a certain date he would undertake it, but not otherwise. He would never deceive his customers, but would always inform them exactly when their work would be finished.
On account of the good reputation which Martin had thus earned, he always had plenty of work, and was known favorably for miles around.
While still young he was regarded as a good, honest man, and now that old age had begun to creep upon him, he thought more and more about the salvation of his soul and how to approach nearer to his Creator.
Martin, while still in the service of a master, lost his wife, but as if to console him for her death he still had left a boy three years old. All the other children had died some years before.
​It was Martin's first impulse to send his son to a sister, who resided in a country village; but he afterward changed his mind. "It would be hard," he thought, "for my dear Kapitoshka to grow up among a strange family. It were better to keep him by myself."
Martin left his employer and made a little home for himself and his son. But God had not given him luck with his children, and he feared that Kapitoshka would never reach manhood.
As the boy grew older he was of great assistance to his father, who was happy and proud of him; but before long he took sick, and after one week of suffering he went the way of his brothers and sisters.
Poor Martin, in his despair at the loss of his only son, began to murmur even against the providence of God. He became so despondent that at times he prayed that the Lord might send him death, reproaching his Maker for having deprived a feeble old man of his only beloved child.
It happened that a countryman of his, an old ​man from Troitzy, once visited Martin. He had been a pilgrim for eight years. While talking with him Martin complained bitterly of the misfortune which had overtaken him, remarking sadly: "I have no longer any desire to live, and I pray that God will soon take me to himself. I am now a man without hope, and life for me is not worth the living."
After listening for some time to Martin's complaint, the old pilgrim said:
"My friend, you should not speak in that way. It is not for us to judge of our Creator's acts. On the contrary, we should submit to the sublime wisdom of God, which is often beyond our comprehension. It is plainly God's will that your son should be taken and that you should be left. It must have been for the best, or it would not have happened. You are in despair because your chief desire in life has been only to seek your own happiness."
"But what have I now to live for?" asked Martin.
​"It is necessary that we should live, Martin," replied the old man, "for God's sake. He gave us life, and we should devote it to him alone. When you make up your mind that you will devote your life entirely to him, you will no longer worry about anything else, and everything will be light and easy for you."
After some moments' reflection, Martin said: "But how am I to live in order to devote my life to God?"
"How we should live," replied the old man, "has been explained to us by Christ. Can you read? If. so, buy a New Testament and read it carefully. In it you will find full instructions as to how you should live. In that book everything is explained."
The old pilgrim's words sank so deeply into Martin's despairing heart that the very same day he went out and bought a copy of the Testament (in large type) and began earnestly to read it. At first he intended to study it only on holidays, but when he once had started he ​became so interested in the wonderful truths it contained and felt such relief of mind that he read it every day. Frequently he would become so absorbed in the book that he would fail to notice that the oil in his lamp had burned low, and even at such times it was only with an effort that he could put aside the sacred volume.
Thus he read every evening, and the more he studied the more clearly was he enabled to understand what God demanded of him, and also how best to devote his life to the Master's use. The knowledge thus gained made his heart much lighter and greatly added to his peace of mind. Formerly, as he lay on his bed, it was his habit to sigh and moan, grieving all the time over the loss of his son Kapitoshka; but now he simply said: "Glory to thee, O Lord! Glory to thee! Thy will be done!"
From the time that Martin began to read the Testament his whole life underwent a change. It was once his custom, on holy-days, to visit a neighboring restaurant for the purpose of drink​ing tea, and he would not refuse vodki (whiskey) when offered to him. He would drink with friends and come out soon after, if not quite intoxicated, yet feeling in a jovial mood. He would frequently talk foolishly, accusing his neighbor of various acts of misconduct and concluding by calling him names. Now, however, a great change had taken place, and his life became calm and joyful. In the morning he started to work, and when he had finished for the day he took his lamp from the shelf and placed it upon the table. He then opened his Testament and began to read, understanding more and more clearly each night the path of duty which lay before him.
It happened one night that Martin read till very late. He had been reading the Gospel of St. Luke, and had reached the following passage in the sixth chapter: "And unto him that smiteth thee on the one cheek offer also the other; and him that taketh away thy cloak forbid not to take thy coat also. Give to every ​man that asketh of thee; and of him that taketh away thy goods, ask them not again. And as ye would that men should do to you, do ye also to them likewise." In addition, he read also the words wherein Christ says: "And why call ye me, Lord, Lord, and do not the things which I say? Whosoever cometh to me, and heareth my sayings and doeth them, I will shew you to whom he is like: He is like a man which built an house, and laid the foundation on a rock: and when the flood arose, the stream beat vehemently upon that house, and could not shake it: for it was founded upon a rock. But he that heareth and doeth not is like a man that without a foundation built an house upon the earth; against which the stream did beat vehemently, and immediately it fell; and the ruin of that house was great."
Martin read and reread these words with a feeling of great joy in his heart. Taking off his eye-glasses he laid them on the book, and, resting his head on his hands, was soon lost in ​thought. He began to view his past life in the light of the words he had just read, and said slowly to himself:
"Have I built my house upon a rock, or upon the sand? It is well if on the rock. Yet it all seems easy enough when you are sitting alone in your room. It then looks to you as if you had done everything that God had commanded: but in the very next moment of forgetfulness you may commit another sin. I shall continue, however, to do as I have been doing, for I feel very happy and hopeful. Help me, O Lord!"
While Martin was thus engaged in thought, he felt that sleep was overtaking him; still he could not bear to close the holy book, and he began to read the next chapter. He read all about the centurion and the widow's son; about the answer given to the disciples of John, and at last came to the passage in which the rich Pharisee invites our Lord to dine with him. He read also the story of Mary Magdalen, who anointed our Saviour's feet with oil, and after ​washing them with her tears dried them with her hair: and he noted how Christ defended her. Reaching the forty-fourth verse he read:
"And he turned to the woman, and said unto Simon, Seest thou this woman? I entered into thine house, thou gavest me no water for my feet; but she hath washed my feet with tears, and wiped them with the hairs of her head. Thou gavest me no kiss: but this woman, since the time I came in, hath not ceased to kiss my feet. My head with oil thou didst not anoint: but this woman hath anointed my feet with ointment."
After reading these verses he thought to himself: "Thou gavest me no water for my feet. Thou gavest me no kiss. My head with oil thou didst not anoint."
Again removing his eye-glasses, he placed them on the book and gave himself up once more to reflection.
"It is true," he thought; "that Pharisee was a man such as I am. I also remember only my​self, wishing to gratify simply my own whims and vanities—how to drink tea in a warm, comfortable room all by myself, instead of inviting others to share it with me. I do not forget myself, but generally fail to remember the needs of others. And who was the guest? The Lord himself! If he had come to me would I have received him in the same manner?"
At this point Martin leaned both his elbows on the table, quite unconscious of how rapidly sleep was overtaking him. Suddenly a sharp cry of "Martin!" roused him from his slumbers, and instantly jumping to his feet he cried out, "Who is here?"
Martin turned around quickly and looked at the door, but no one was to be seen. He again seated himself at the table and was soon fast asleep, when he was once more startled by the words:
"Martin! Ah, Martin! Look to-morrow on the street. I will come."
Martin awoke, and rubbing his eyes he arose ​slowly from the bench, in great doubt as to whether the words he had heard were real or only the result of a dream. Not hearing the words repeated, however, he decided to extinguish the light and go to bed.
He arose before daylight, and after his usual morning devotions he built a fire in the stove. Having placed water in the samovar and live coals underneath, he prepared his breakfast of cabbage-soup and gruel, after which he put on his apron and took his accustomed seat at the window ready for work.
But Martin could not banish from his mind the occurrences of the previous day. Now he would conclude that he had been only dreaming, and again he would think that he had actually heard a voice calling him. "Well," he said, "such things have really occurred."
While Martin was at work by the window he could not resist the desire constantly to look out upon the street, and when any one would pass whose shoes he did not recognize he would ​approach nearer to the window in order to get a glimpse of their owner's face. Presently the inn-keeper passed in new felt boots, and soon afterward came the water-carrier. There next appeared on the scene an old soldier of the time of Nicholas. He also had on felt boots, but they were worn and old. In his hand he carried a shovel. Martin recognized him by his boots. The old soldier's name was Stepanovitch, and a neighboring merchant had out of charity given him a home and allowed him to assist the inn-keeper with his duties. He came close to Martin's window and began clearing away the snow with his shovel.
Martin glanced at him from time to time, and finally resumed his work.
"See here!" said Martin, "I must be growing foolish in my old age;" and he laughed softly to himself. "Old Stepanovitch comes and clears away the snow, and I at once become impressed with the idea that Christ is coming to see me. Old fool that I am! I must ​surely be in my dotage to imagine such a thing."
Martin had taken a few more stitches, when his curiosity again forced him to look out of the window. What he saw was Stepanovitch, who, having leaned his shovel against the wall, was either resting or trying to keep himself warm.
"He is an old, broken-down man," Martin thought; "and it must be hard for him to do even such light work as shovelling snow. The samovar is already prepared, and it would be only a kindly act on my part to ask him into have some tea."
Martin, after putting aside his work, placed the steaming samovar on the table and (pouring some more water into the teapot) knocked at the window.
The old man turned around slowly and came toward the window. Martin by signs made him understand what he wanted and went to the door to open it, saying: "Come in, my friend, and ​make yourself warm; for I am sure you must be very cold."
"Christ save us!" said Stepanovitch. "It seems to me as if my poor old bones were breaking with the cold."
Stepanovitch, on entering the room, commenced to brush the snow off his clothes, and afterward stooped down to clean his old felt boots so that he would not soil the floor of the little room. In doing so he staggered from sheer exhaustion and nearly fell.
"Never mind," said Martin; "I will clean the floor afterward. We have other business to attend to now. Come in and be seated and have a cup of tea with me," after saying which Martin poured out two glasses of tea and handed one of them to his guest.
Taking his own glass, he poured its contents into the saucer, when he began to blow it so as to cool it. Stepanovitch, after drinking his tea, turned his glass upside down (a Russian custom, signifying that he had had enough), ​and placing the remains of his lump of sugar on the top, he began to thank his host for the kind treatment he had shown him. But it was evident that the old soldier was not yet satisfied and wanted more tea.
"Drink more," said Martin; whereupon he again filled both glasses, his guest's and his own.
While Martin slowly sipped his tea, his eyes constantly wandered toward the window, and he frequently looked out on the street.
Seeing his uneasiness, the old man asked: "Do you expect any one?"
"Do I expect any one?" replied Martin. "Yes; I expect a visit from a stranger," he said. "But I would be ashamed to tell you who it is I am looking for. Indeed, I am not sure that any one is coming; I am only waiting. But something has occurred which has left a deep impression on my mind. I do not know whether it was a dream or a reality, it was all so strange. It happened this way, my friend: Yesterday I was reading the Gospel of Luke, where it tells ​about Christ and his sufferings, and how he lived while upon earth. Have you heard the story?"
"Yes," replied Stepanovitch; "I have heard it a number of times. But we are a people still lost in darkness. We cannot yet understand."
"Well," said Martin, "that was the story that I was reading yesterday—how he lived while on earth. I read also all about the Pharisee and the way he treated Christ when he went to him, and how he refused him the hospitality of his home. Well, as I read yesterday this very story I wondered to myself why he did not receive Christ with great honor. Let us suppose, for instance, that he should visit me. I would not know how to receive him. But the Pharisee gave him no reception whatever. Well, with my mind still dwelling on the subject I fell into a deep sleep, and while in that condition I heard my name called distinctly. The sound awoke me and I got up. As I did so a voice whispered softly: 'Watch! I will be with ​you to-morrow.' This occurred twice in the same night. Well, my friend, you will scarcely believe me when I tell you that I conceived the idea that the Saviour might really visit me. I reproach myself—and yet I cannot help expecting him."
The old soldier looked long and earnestly at Martin, but only shook his head without speaking. Having finished his tea, he silently turned his glass upside down. But Martin, without asking him if he wanted more, took the glass and filled it again, saying:
"Drink some more tea, Stepanovitch; it is good for you. My friend, I believe that when Christ was here upon earth he loved every one—but especially the poor and humble. It was the meek and lowly he went among. He chose his disciples from the working class, from poor fishermen, and sinners like ourselves. He also tells us that whoso exalts himself shall be humbled, and he that humbleth himself shall be exalted. 'You,' he said, 'call me Lord, and ​I wash your feet. He that wishes to be first shall be last, and a servant unto all the others.' Because I read in the holy book where he says, 'Blessed are the poor in spirit, for they shall surely go to heaven.' He also says, 'Blessed are the kind, the generous.'
Old Stepanovitch became so interested in all that Martin said that he forgot to drink his tea. The old soldier was easily moved to tears, and as he sat listening to Martin they slowly trickled down his cheeks.
"Come, Stepanovitch, won't you have some more tea?" asked Martin.
But the old soldier's only reply was to make the sign of the cross, after which he turned his glass upside down, and, thanking his host, arose.
"Thank you again," he said to Martin; "you have been very kind tome. You have warmed my body and refreshed my soul."
The old man then took his departure.
Martin, after having drunk the rest of the tea, put the dishes on the shelf, and sitting by the ​window he resumed his work. He was stitching on a patch, and as he worked he kept constantly looking out of the window. He continued to think of Christ's sayings and of his marvellous deeds. He was also wondering if Christ would really pay him a visit it.
As he looked through the window two soldiers passed by. The boots of one had been furnished by the Government, while those of the other had been made by Martin himself. Soon the owner of the next house went by, wearing new goloshes. Then came a baker with a large basket, and he, too, passed on. The last to appear in sight of the window was a woman whose woollen stockings were plainly visible through the lacings of her lapti (shoes made of the bark of the linden tree). She went by and stopped at the wall close to the window-sill.
Martin on looking up saw a woman poorly clad and hugging a baby to her breast. She was standing with her back to the wind, endeavoring to protect the child from its biting ​blasts, but without sufficient clothes to do so. Those which she wore were old and very shabby. They were also of thin material, and only fit for summer weather. Through the window Martin could hear the baby crying and the mother trying to quiet it; but her efforts were not successful. Martin arose and, going to the outer door, called out from the steps, saying: "My good woman! my good woman!"
On hearing a strange voice the woman with difficulty turned around, as the wind was blowing hard.
"Well," said Martin, "why are you standing in the cold with a babe in your arms? Come right into my room, where it is nice and warm, and where you can wrap the child up better. Here, come this way," he said, pointing to the door.
The woman looked greatly surprised, but, seeing a gentle, kindly-faced old man calling her, with his apron and eye-glasses on, she cheerfully followed him. They descended a few steps, ​which brought them into the room, and Martin, leading the way, conducted her to the bed, when, smiling pleasantly, he said: "Be seated, my good woman, on the side nearest the stove, where you can warm yourself and feed your baby."
The woman smiled sadly as she said: "I have no milk. I have not eaten any food since yesterday." She, however, placed the baby to her breast.
Martin, on hearing this, sadly shook his head, and going to the table got some bread. He next opened the door of the oven and took from it some cabbage-soup, a portion of which he poured into a dish and placed before the starving woman. Then he brought out a pot of gruel, but it was not quite ready; so he gave her bread and soup to satisfy her hunger, adding a drink of quass (fermented rye) in a wooden bowl. Taking a towel from the nail, he placed it also on the table beside the other things.
"My good woman," said Martin, "be seated by the table, and I will care for the babe while ​you eat. I once had little children myself," continued Martin, "and know how to take care of them and amuse them." The woman took a seat beside the table, the one which Martin had indicated, and, after crossing herself, she began to eat.
Martin seated himself on the bed beside the little one. He chirped to the child several times, but owing to the loss of his teeth the sound was not an agreeable one and the babe began to cry. Martin then tried another means of amusement, by dangling his fingers in its face and then quickly withdrawing them without touching the child. The little trick pleased the babe and it soon ceased to cry, and, becoming quiet, it watched Martin until a smile spread over its little face, and Martin was happy. Meanwhile the woman was enjoying her meal and relating her family history to Martin, telling him who she was and where she came from. "I," she said, "am a soldier's wife, and eight months ago my husband was ordered a long distance from here, ​and I have not since heard from him. I was out at service as a cook when my little baby came, and after that no one seemed to care to have me. No one wanted a servant who had to have a child with her, and since that time I have been without a place. The few things I once possessed have been sold to purchase food. I tried at many places to get a position as wet-nurse, but was always told that I was too thin. I have just now been to the merchant's house where our grandmother lives. His wife said she would give us shelter, and I thought that at last we were about to get settled, when she told me to come again next week. I was very tired, for I had travelled a long distance. My sweet babe was tired, too, and the road back is long. It is a good thing for us that the landlady where we live has a kind heart and has taken pity on us, and for Christ's sake has let us have a room free of charge; otherwise I do not know how I should manage to live."
Martin, as he heard the pitiful tale, sighed ​deeply and at last said: "Have you no warm clothing?"
"My dear old friend," the woman answered, "I know this is the season of the year for warm clothing, but I have none. Yesterday I pawned my last shawl for twenty kopecks."
Having finished her meal, the woman went to the bed and took the child in her arms. Martin went to the corner and began hunting for something, and finally found an old coat which he brought out, and handing it to the woman, said: "Take it. It is old and shabby, I know, but it may be of some service to you."
The woman looked at the old man and then at the coat, and she burst into tears. Martin was also greatly affected and turned his head aside so that the woman might not see the expression of his face. Going over to the bed, he stooped down and drew from under it a small box, out of which he took something which he held in his hand as he again seated himself opposite to the woman.
​"May Christ bless you, diedushka [little uncle]," the woman said. "It seems as if he himself must have sent me to your window, for if it had not been for your kindness my babe must have frozen to death. When I started from my home this morning it was quite warm, but since then the weather has changed, and now it is bitter cold. And it was he," she continued, "the dear Christ, that led you to look through the window and have pity on a poor unfortunate."
Martin smiled as he said: "Truly it was he who put the thought into my mind, and (as it has proved) he had good reasons for doing so."
Martin then related his dream to the soldier's wife, and how he had heard a voice which he believed to be the Lord's promise to come that day to see him.
"With the Lord all things are possible," said the woman.
She then arose, and wrapping the old overcoat about herself and the babe, she prepared to take her departure. She first, however, with tears ​in her eyes, thanked the old man for his kindness to her.
"Accept this 'for Christ's sake,'" said Martin, as he thrust a twenty-kopeck piece into her hand, "and redeem your shawl from the pawn-shop."
The woman made the sign of the cross. Martin did likewise, and then he accompanied her to the door.
After the woman left Martin had something to eat, and when he had finished he washed the dishes, and, putting the room in order, he once more sat down to work. A feeling of satisfaction filled his heart.
Martin while working did not forget the window, and as the shadow of each passer-by darkened its dingy panes he looked up. Friends and strangers both passed by, but nothing out of the ordinary occurred.
Suddenly a dark shadow fell across the little window, and Martin hastily looked up to see what caused it. What he saw was an old wom​an, a fruit-vender, who had stopped before the window. Her basket of fruit was still unsold. On her back she had a bag filled with chips, which she had apparently collected from some new building in course of erection. Feeling tired from the weight of her double burden, she had stopped to change their position. She had placed the bag on the ground near the door, while she rested her basket against a pillar.
She began to arrange the chips in the bag, and while so engaged a poorly-dressed boy appeared on the scene and stole an apple from the basket. The boy thought he would get away safely with his booty, but just as he was about to start the old woman suddenly turned around and discovered her loss, when she grabbed the thief by the arm.
He was a little fellow, and tried hard to free himself, but the woman dropped everything else and held him with both her hands. She snatched his hat from his head and threw it into the street and then began to pull his hair. The boy began ​to cry and the woman to swear. Martin threw his work on the floor, and in his hurry to get to the door he stumbled and dropped his eye-glasses.
When Martin finally reached the street he found the woman still pulling the boy's hair and swearing and threatening to call a policeman. The boy struggled desperately to free himself from the woman, all the while saying: "I did not take the apple. Why do you beat me? You must let me go."
Martin, on reaching the struggling boy and woman, tried to separate them, and taking the poor child by the arm said: "Let him go, babushka [little grandmother], forgive him, for Christ's sake."
"Yes," she replied; "I will forgive him in such a manner that he will not forget it during the remainder of his life. I will take the little imp to the police station!"
But Martin still pleaded with the old woman, saying:
​"Please let him go, little grandmother. He will not do it again. Let him go, for Christ's sake."
The woman, with great reluctance, finally released him, and the boy started to run; but Martin took hold of him, saying:
"Ask the old lady to forgive you and promise her that you will not do it again. I saw you take the apple myself."
The boy began to cry and soon asked to be forgiven, promising that he would not repeat the offence.
"That is the right way to do," said Martin; and taking an apple from the old woman's basket he handed it to the boy, saying: "Now you may have it." Then turning to the woman, he said: "I will pay you for it, my dear little grandmother."
"Such kind treatment is what makes those young rascals so bad," she replied. "This one deserves a reward that would render him unable to play such tricks for at least a week."
​"Oh, babushka!" said Martin. "That may be our way, but it is not God's. If you think the boy should be so severely punished for stealing only an apple, what punishment do you think should be meted out to us for our sins?"
The old woman did not reply.
Martin then related to her the parable of how a certain lord had released his tenant from a large debt, and how the tenant went out and began to abuse one who owed him a much smaller sum.
The old woman and the boy listened with great interest to the Bible story.
"God has commanded us to forgive," said Martin, "that we also may be forgiven. Everybody should be forgiven, especially the hasty and thoughtless."
The woman shook her head and heaved a deep sigh.
"Yes, yes," she said; "that is all very true. But nowadays boys are too wicked to be benefited by such Christian kindness."
​"But we older ones should teach them," replied Martin.
"That's just what I have said," remarked the old woman. "I myself have had seven children, and only one daughter is left."
The woman then began to relate where and how she and her daughter lived, and the number of grandchildren she had.
"As you see, I am only a feeble old woman," she continued, "and yet I am obliged to work. I have the greatest pity for my grandchildren, and they in return are very good and kind to me. They always run to meet me with a welcome which I receive nowhere else. Aksiutka will come to no one but myself. 'Babushka, my darling little grandmother—dear one,' she often cries."
At these tender recollections the old woman became so deeply affected that she burst into tears. "Well," she said, finally recovering her composure, "it is, after all, only a childish trick. God bless him," and she pointed to the boy.
​Perfectly pacified, the old woman made a movement as if to continue on her way. She made an attempt to raise the bag of chips to her shoulder, but the boy jumped up and said: "Let me carry it, babushka; I am going in the same direction in which you live."
The old woman shook her head as she handed the bag to the boy, and together they started down the street. In the excitement she forgot to take the money from Martin for the apple.
Martin, with a smile of satisfaction on his face, stood silently gazing after them; and he heard them talking in a friendly manner as the sound of their voices died away in the distance.
After their departure Martin returned to his basement. Going down the steps he found his eye-glasses. Fortunately, they were not broken.
Martin again took up his work and began to stitch. After working some little time he saw that it was growing dark and he could no longer see to sew. Looking through the window, he ​saw a lamplighter pass by. "Well," he thought to himself, "it is time for me to have a light." He arose, and after trimming his lamp and lighting it, he hung it up and again prepared to work.
Turning around the boot, which he had already finished, he looked at it critically and said, "Well done."
Getting up, he put his tools away and brushed up the scraps, after which he placed the lamp on the table. He next took down the holy book from the shelf. He intended opening it at a place which he had marked with a piece of leather, but on placing the book on the table it opened at an entirely different place, and as it did so he remembered yesterday's dream. At the same time he heard a noise in the room, as if some one was moving behind him. He turned suddenly around and saw a number of people standing in the corner, but he was unable to recognize them. Presently a voice whispered in his ear:
​"Martin, ah! Martin, did you not know me?"
"Whom?" muttered Martin.
"Me," repeated the voice. "It is I," said Stepanovitch, smiling pleasantly as he advanced from the dark corner; and then like a cloud he vanished into space.
"And this is I," said another voice, when the woman with her child stepped forth. The woman also smiled, while the infant laughed gleefully; and they, too, quickly disappeared.
"And here are we," said a third voice; when both the old woman and the boy with an apple in his hand came forward. They also smiled, and instantly faded away.
Martin was now almost overcome with a feeling of joy more sweet than he had ever before experienced. Making the sign of the cross, he began to read the following passage, at which the Bible had accidentally opened:
"For I was an hungered, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in."
​And lower down on the page he read:
"In as much as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me."
And Martin understood that his dream had been realized, and that the Saviour had in very truth visited him that day, and that he had received him in the proper spirit.