<h2><SPAN name="THE_WIDOWS_AND_THE_STRANGERS" id="THE_WIDOWS_AND_THE_STRANGERS"></SPAN>THE WIDOWS AND THE STRANGERS.</h2>
<p>In days of yore, there were once two poor old widows who
lived in the same hamlet and under the same roof. But though
the cottages joined and one roof covered them, they had each a
separate dwelling; and although they were alike in age and
circumstances, yet in other respects they were very different.
For one dame was covetous, though she had little to save, and
the other was liberal, though she had little to give.</p>
<p>Now, on the rising ground opposite to the widows' cottages,
stood a monastery where a few pious and charitable brethren
spent their time in prayer, labour, and good works. And with
the alms of these monks, and the kindness of neighbours, and
because their wants were few, the old women dwelt in comfort,
and had daily bread, and lay warm at night.</p>
<p>One evening, when the covetous old widow was having supper,
there came a knock at her door. Before she opened it she
hastily put away the remains of her meal.</p>
<p>"For," said she, "it is a stormy night, and ten to one some
belated vagabond wants shelter; and when there are victuals on
the table every fool must be asked to sup."</p>
<p>But when she opened the door, a monk came in who had his
cowl pulled over his head to shelter him from the storm. The
widow was much disconcerted at having kept one of the
brotherhood waiting, and loudly apologized, but the monk
stopped her, saying, "I fear I cut short your evening meal, my
daughter."</p>
<p>"Now in the name of ill-luck, how came he to guess that?"
thought the widow, as with anxious civility she pressed the
monk to take some supper after his walk; for the good woman
always felt hospitably inclined towards any one who was likely
to return her kindness sevenfold.</p>
<p>The brother, however, refused to sup; and as he seated
himself the widow looked sharply through her spectacles to see
if she could gather from any distention of the folds of his
frock whether a loaf, a bottle of cordial, or a new winter's
cloak were most likely to crown the visit. No undue
protuberance being visible about the monk's person, she turned
her eyes to his face, and found that her visitor was one of the
brotherhood whom she had not seen before. And not only was his
face unfamiliar, it was utterly unlike the kindly but rough
countenances of her charitable patrons. None that she had ever
seen boasted the noble beauty, the chiselled and refined
features of the monk before her. And she could not but notice
that, although only one rushlight illumined her room, and
though the monk's cowl went far to shade him even from that,
yet his face was lit up as if by light from within, so that his
clear skin seemed almost transparent. In short, her curiosity
must have been greatly stirred, had not greed made her more
anxious to learn what he had brought than who he was.</p>
<p>"It's a terrible night," quoth the monk, at length. "Such
tempest without only gives point to the indoor comforts of the
wealthy; but it chills the very marrow of the poor and
destitute."</p>
<p>"Aye, indeed," sniffed the widow, with a shiver. "If it were
not for the charity of good Christians, what would poor folk do
for comfort on such an evening as this?"</p>
<p>"It was that very thought, my daughter," said the monk, with
a sudden earnestness on his shining face, "that brought me
forth even now through the storm to your cottage."</p>
<p>"Heaven reward you!" cried the widow, fervently.</p>
<p>"Heaven does reward the charitable!" replied the monk. "To
no truth do the Scriptures bear such constant and unbroken
witness; even as it is written: 'He that hath pity upon the
poor lendeth unto the Lord; and look, what he layeth out it
shall be paid him again.'"</p>
<p>"What a blessed thing it must be to be able to do good!"
sighed the widow, piously wishing in her heart that the holy
man would not delay to earn his recompense.</p>
<p>"My daughter," said the monk, "that blessing is not withheld
from you. It is to ask your help for those in greater need than
yourself that I am come to-night." And forthwith the good
brother began to tell how two strangers had sought shelter at
the monastery. Their house had been struck by lightning, and
burnt with all it contained; and they themselves, aged, poor,
and friendless, were exposed to the fury of the storm. "Our
house is a poor one," continued the monk. "The strangers'
lodging room was already full, and we are quite without the
means of making these poor souls comfortable. You at least have
a sound roof over your head, and if you can spare one or two
things for the night, they shall be restored to you to-morrow,
when some of our guests depart."</p>
<p>The widow could hardly conceal her vexation and
disappointment. "Now, dear heart, holy father!" cried she, "is
there not a rich body in the place, that you come for charity
to a poor old widow like me, that am in a case rather to borrow
myself than to lend to others?"</p>
<p>"Can you spare us a blanket?" said the monk. "These poor
strangers have been out in the storm, remember."</p>
<p>The widow started. "What meddling busybody told him that the
Baroness gave me a new blanket at Michaelmas?" thought she; but
at last, very unwillingly, she went to an inner room to fetch a
blanket from her bed.</p>
<p>"They shan't have the new one, that's flat," muttered the
widow; and she drew out the old one and began to fold it up.
But though she had made much of its thinness and insufficiency
to the Baroness, she was so powerfully affected at parting with
it, that all its good qualities came strongly to her mind.</p>
<p>"It's a very suitable size," she said 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 may kick
about in their sleep? And who knows if they're decent folk at
all? likely enough they're two hedge birds, who have imposed a
pitiful tale on the good fathers, and never slept under
anything finer than a shock of straw in their lives."</p>
<p>The more the good woman thought of this, the more sure she
felt that such was the case, and the less willing she became to
lend her blanket to "a couple of good-for-nothing 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, three years ago! It would be a sin
and a shame to burn a good blanket like this." And repeating "a
sin and a shame" with great force, the widow restored the
blanket to its place.</p>
<p>"The coverlet's not worth much," she thought; "but my
goodman bought it the year after we were married, and if
anything happened to it I should never forgive myself. The old
shawl is good enough for tramps." Saying which she took a
ragged old shawl from a peg, and began to fold it up. But even
as she brushed and folded, she begrudged the faded rag.</p>
<p>"It saves my better one on a bad day," she sighed; "but I
suppose the father must have something."</p>
<p>And accordingly she took it to the monk, saying, "It's not
so good as it has been, but there's warmth in it yet, and it
cost a pretty penny when new."</p>
<p>"And is this all that you can spare to the poor houseless
strangers?" asked the monk.</p>
<p>"Aye, indeed, good father," said she, "and that will cost me
many a twinge of rheumatics. Folk at my age can't lie cold at
night for nothing."</p>
<p>"These poor strangers," said the monk, "are as aged as
yourself, and have lost everything."</p>
<p>But as all he said had no effect in moving the widow's
compassion, he departed, and knocked at the door of her
neighbour. Here he told the same tale, which met with a very
different hearing. This widow was one of those liberal souls
whose possessions always make them feel uneasy unless they are
being accepted, or used, or borrowed by some one else. She
blessed herself that, thanks to the Baroness, she had a new
blanket fit to lend to the king himself, and only desired to
know with what else she could serve the poor strangers and
requite the charities of the brotherhood.</p>
<p>The monk confessed that all the slender stock of household
goods in the monastery was in use, and one after another he
accepted the loan of almost everything the widow had. As she
gave the things he put them out through the door, saying that
he had a messenger outside; and having promised that all should
be duly restored on the morrow, he departed, leaving the widow
with little else than an old chair in which she was to pass the
night.</p>
<p>When the monk had gone, the storm raged with greater fury
than before, and at last one terrible flash of lightning 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 creatures hobbled out into the storm, they
met the monk, who, crying, "Come to the monastery!" 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.</p>
<p>Under a shed by the wall were the goods and chattels of the
liberal widow.</p>
<p>"Take back thine own, daughter," said the monk; "thy charity
hath brought its own reward."</p>
<p>"But the strangers, good father?" said the perplexed
widow.</p>
<p>"Ye are the strangers," answered the monk; "and what thy
pity thought meet to be spared for the unfortunate, Heaven in
thy misfortune hath spared to thee."</p>
<p>Then turning to the other widow, he drew the old shawl from
beneath his frock, and gave it to her, saying, "I give you joy,
dame, that this hath escaped the flames. It is not so good as
it has been; but there is warmth in it yet, and it cost a
pretty penny when new."</p>
<p>Full of confusion, the illiberal widow took back her shawl,
murmuring, "Lack-a-day! If I had but known it was ourselves the
good father meant!"</p>
<p>The monk gave a shrewd smile.</p>
<p>"Aye, aye, it would have been different, I doubt not," said
he; "but accept the lesson, 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 as to what thou canst spare."</p>
<p>As he spoke, a flash of lightning lit up the ground where
the monk stood, making a vast aureole about him in the darkness
of the night. In the bright light, his countenance appeared
stern and awful in its beauty, and when the flash was passed,
the monk had vanished also.</p>
<p>Furthermore, when the widows sought shelter in the
monastery, they found that the brotherhood knew nothing of
their strange visitor.</p>
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