Then from a book the angel drew A leaf with name and date, A record of this Ernest's life Wove in the looms of Fate. And said: "O, Faithful, answer me, Here is a midnight scroll, What didst thou 'neath the stars that night? Didst linger o'er the bowl? "Filling the night with revelry With cards and wine and dice, And adding music's ecstacy, To give more charms to vice?" Then the soul of Faithful answered, "By the bedside of a friend I watched the long hours through; that night His life drew near its end." "Here's another date at midnight, Where was't thou this night, say?" "I was waiting by the dust of one Whose soul had passed that day." "These dollar marks," the angel said; "What mean they, Ernest, tell?" "It was a trifle that I gave To one whom want befell." "Here's thine own picture, illy dressed; What means this scant attire?" "I know not," answered Faithful, "save That once midst tempest dire, "I found a fellow-man benumbed, And lost amid the storm And so around him wrapped my vest, His stiffening limbs to warm." "Here is a woman's face, a girl's. O, Ernest, is this well? Knowst thou how often women's arms Have drawn men's souls to hell?" Then Ernest answered: "This poor girl An orphan was. I gave A trifle of my ample store The child from want to save." "Next are some words. What mean they here?" Then Ernest answered low: "A fellow-man approached me once Whose life was full of woe, "When I had naught to give, except Some words of hope and trust; I bade him still have faith, for God Who rules above is just." Then the grave angel smiled and moved Ajar the pearly gate And said: "O, soul! we welcome thee Unto this new estate. "Enter! Nor sorrow more is thine, Nor grief; we know thy creed-- Thou who hast soothed thy fellowmen In hour of sorest need. "Thou who hast watched thy brother's dust, When the wrung soul had fled; And to the stranger gave thy cloak, And to the orphan, bread. "And when all else was gone, had still A word of kindly cheer For one more wretched than thyself, Thou, soul, art welcome here. "Put on the robe thou gav'st away 'Tis stainless now and white; And all thy words and deeds are gems; Wear them, it is thy right!" And then from choir and harp awoke A joyous, welcome strain, Which other harps and choirs took up, In jubilant refrain, Till all the aisles of Summer Land Grew resonant, as beat The measures of that mighty song Of welcome, full and sweet. "That is purty. I hope there were no mistake about the gintleman making the showing up above," said Corrigan.