Year: 1873

like me, that am in a case rather to bor-
row myself than to lend to others?"


''Can you lend us spare blanket?"
said the monk ''These poor strangers
have been out in the storm, remember"


The widow started "What meddling
| busybody told him that the baroness gave
me new blanket at Michelmas?" thought
she; but at last, very unwillingly, she
went to an inner room to fetch blanket
from her bed.


! ."They shan't have the new one, that's
fiat" muttered the widow; and she drew
out the old one and began to fold it up.
But though she had dwelt upon its thick
ness and insufficiency to the baroness,
she was SO powerfully affected at parting
with it, that all it's good qualities came
strongly to her mind.


"It's very suitable size" said she to
herself, "and easy for my poor old arms
to shake or fold. With careful usage it
would last for years yet; but who knows
how two wandering bodies that have been
tramping miles through the storm will
kick about in their sleep And who
knows if they're decent people at all /?
Likely enough they're two hedge birds,
that have imposed pitiful tale on the
good fathers, and never slept under any
| thing finer than a shock of straw in their
lives"


The more the good woman thought of
this the more she felt sure it was the
case, and the less willing she became to
| lend her blanket to "a couple of cheating
tramps" A sudden idea decided her.
"Ten to one they bring fever with
them!" she cried; "and dear knows I
saw enough good bedding burnt after the
black fever, ten years ago! 1t would be a
sin and a shame to burn good blanket
like thisP' And repeating, "a sin and a
shame" with great force, the widow re-
stored the blanket to its place.
| "The cOVerlets not worth much" she
thought; but my good man bought it the
year after we were married, and if any
thing happened to it should never for
give myself. The old shawl is good
enough for tramps." Saying which she
took ragged old shawl from peg, and
began to fold it up. And even as she
brushed and folded, she began to grudge
the faded rag. 1t saves my better one
on bad day. she sighed, Z" but | sup
pose the father must have something."


And accordingly she took it to the
monk. It's not so good as it has been,
but there's warmth in it yet, and it cost a
pretty penny when new"


And is this all that you can spare to
the poor houseless strangers % asked the
monk.


"Ah, indeed, good father" said she,
"and that will cause me many twinge
of rheumatics. Folks at my age can't lie
cold at night for nothing"


"These poor strangers" said the monk,
care as aged as yourself, and have lost
everything"


But as all he had said had no effect in
moving the widows compassion, he de-
parted, and knocked at the door of her
neighbor. Here he told the same tale,
which met with very different hearing.
This widow was one of those liberal
souls whose possessions always make
| them feel uneasy unless they are being ac-
cepted, or used, or borrowed by some one
else; and she blessed herself that, thanks
to the baroness, she had new blanket fit
to lend to the king himself and only de-
sired to know what else she had with
which she could serve the poor strangers,
and requite the charities of the brother
| hood.


The monk confessed that all the slender
stock of household goods in the monas-
terry was in use and one after another he
accepted the loan of almost everything
|
put them out through the door, saying
that he had messenger outside; and
having promised that everything should
be duiy restored on the morrow, he de-
parted, leaving the widow little else than
the chair in which she was % pass the
night.


When the monk had gone the storm
| ragged with greater fury than before, and
| Ioot of mht htriY ,r
struck the widows house, and, though it
did not hurt the old women, it set fire to
| the roof, and both cottages were soon
ablaze. Now, as the terrified old crea-
lures hobbled out into the storm, they
met the monk, who, crying "Come to the
monastery I" seized an arm of each and
hurried them up the hill. To such good
purpose did he help them that they
seemed to fly, and arrived at the convent
gate they hardly knew how.


Under shed by the wall were the
goods and chattels of the liberal widow.


Take back thine own, daughter" said
the monk; ''thy charity hath brought It's
own reward"


"But the strangers, good father?" said
the perplexed widow.


'You are the strangers, answered the
monk; land what thy pity thought meet
to be spared for the unfortunate, Heaven
in thy misfortune hath spared to thee" !"
Then turning to the other widow, he drew
the old shawl from beneath his frock, and
gave it to her, saying, Il give you joy,
! dame, that this hath escaped the flames.
1t is not so good as it has been; but there
is warmth in it yet, and it cost pretty
penny when new"


Full of confusion, the illiberal widow
took back her shawl murmuring, LACK
aday If l had but known it was our
selves the good father meant"


The monk gave shrewd smile.


CAY, ay, it would have been different, l
doubt not" said he; "but accept the les
son, my daughter, and when next thou art
called upon to help the unfortunate, think
that it is thine own needs that would be
served; and it may be thou shalt judge
better Of what thou canst spare"


AS he spoke, a flash of lightning lit up
the ground where the monk stood, max
ing a vast creole about him in the dark
ness of the night. In the bright light his
countenance appeared stern and awful in
its beauty, and when the flash had past
the monk had vanished also.


Furthermore, when the widows sought
shelter in the monastery, they found that
the brotherhood knew nothing of their
strange visitor.