He was supported by the patient industry of a wife.
"If good works are the only passport to heaven," he said to a
neighbor one day, "I fear my chances will be small."
"'Well done, good and faithful servant,' is the language of
welcome," was replied; and the neighbor looked at the sick man in a
way that made him feel a little uncomfortable.
"I am sick and bedridden--what can I do?" he spoke, fretfully.
"When little is given, little is required. But if there be only a
single talent it must be improved."
"I have no talent," said the invalid.
"Are you sure of that?"
"What can I do? Look at me! No health, no strength, no power to rise
from this bed. A poor, helpless creature, burdening my wife. Better
for me, and for all, if I were in my grave."
"If that were so you would be in your grave. But God knows best.
There is something for you to do, or you would be no longer
permitted to live," said the neighbor.
The sick man shook his head.
"As I came along just now," continued the neighbor, "I stopped to
say a word to poor Tom Hicks, the cripple, as he stood swinging on
the gate before his mother's house, looking so unhappy that I pitied
him in my heart.
Pages:
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64