Thus it was with Markland at fifty. He had all good as to the
externals of life, yet was he a miserable man, and, worse than all,
he felt himself growing more and more unhappy as the years
increased. Was there no remedy for this? None, while his heart was
so filled with evil affections, which are always tormentors. He did
not see this. Though his guests disturbed and afflicted him, he
called them friends, and gave them entertainments of the best his
house afforded.
Sometimes Pity came to the door of his heart and asked for
admission, but he sent Unkindness to double bar it against her.
Generosity knocked, but Avarice stood sentinel. Envy was forever
refusing to let Good-will, Appreciation, Approval, Delight, come in.
Detraction would give no countenance to Virtue and Excellence. Doubt
made deadly assault upon Faith, and Trust, and Hope, whenever they
drew near, while Ill-will stood ever on the alert to drive off
Charity, Loving-kindness and Neighborly regard. Unhappy man! Fiends
possessed him, and he knew it not.
It so happened on a time, that Markland, while standing in one of
his well-filled ware-houses, saw a child enter and come towards him
in a timid, hesitating manner.
"A beggar! Drive her away," said Unkindness and Suspicion, both
arousing themselves.
Markland was already lifting his hand to wave her back, when
Compassion, who had just then found an old way into his heart,
hidden for a long time by rank weeds and brambles, said, in soft and
pitying tones:
"She is such a little child!"
"A thieving beggar!" cried Unkindness and Suspicion, angrily.
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