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Updated: June 20, 2025
Weightman read the parable from the pulpit, but he had never reflected how it would be to be the father of a real prodigal. What was to be done about the calf? Was there to be a calf, or was there not? No, he would deal with justice. How he dealt will be seen presently, but when he finally reached this conclusion, the clipping from the Pepper County Plainsman had not yet come before his eyes.
He always was the most unmethodical and unbusiness-like of mortals poor Roger! She heard her own voice in reply. "Oh yes, you have. I don't make mistakes about such things. Do you remember the letter in which I told you about that affair of Theresa Weightman?" A stare an astonished admission. Precisely! "Well, she's in great trouble. Her husband threatens absurdities.
There was only one person besides the doctor in that little company whom John Weightman had known before an old bookkeeper who had spent his life over a desk, carefully keeping accounts a rusty, dull little man, patient and narrow, whose wife had been in the insane asylum for twenty years and whose only child was a crippled daughter, for whose comfort and happiness he had toiled and sacrificed himself without stint.
John Weightman was like the house into which he had built himself thirty years ago, and in which his ideals and ambitions were incrusted. He was a self-made man. But in making himself he had chosen a highly esteemed pattern and worked according to the approved rules. There was nothing irregular, questionable, flamboyant about him. He was solid, correct, and justly successful.
And the sad shepherd took up his battered staff, and went on his way rejoicing. There was an air of calm and reserved opulence about the Weightman mansion that spoke not of money squandered, but of wealth prudently applied. Standing on a corner of the Avenue no longer fashionable for residence, it looked upon the swelling tide of business with an expression of complacency and half-disdain.
From the edge of the hill, where John Weightman sat, he could see the travellers, in little groups or larger companies, gathering from time to time by the different paths, and making the ascent. They were all clothed in white, and the form of their garments was strange to him; it was like some old picture.
There was only one person except the doctor in that little company whom John Weightman had known before an old book-keeper who had spent his life over a desk, carefully keeping accounts a rusty, dull little man, patient and narrow, whose wife had been in the insane asylum for twenty years and whose only child was a crippled daughter, for whose comfort and happiness he had toiled and sacrificed himself without stint.
John Weightman joined in some of the songs which were familiar to him from their use in the church at first with a touch of hesitation, and then more confidently. For as they went on his sense of strangeness and fear at his new experience diminished, and his thoughts began to take on their habitual assurance and complacency. Were not these people going to the Celestial City?
There was something pitiful and shamefaced about the hut. It shrank and drooped and faded in its barren field, and seemed to cling only by sufferance to the edge of the splendid city. "This," said the Keeper of the Gate, standing still and speaking with a low, distinct voice "this is your mansion, John Weightman."
But the face of the Keeper of the Gate was infinitely tender as he bent over him. "Think again, John Weightman. Has there been nothing like that in your life?" "Nothing," he sighed. "If there ever were such things, it must have been long ago they were all crowded out I have forgotten them."
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