"Take back thine own, daughter," said the monk; "thy charity hath
brought its own reward."
"But the strangers, good father?" said the perplexed widow.
"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."
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."
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!"
The monk gave a shrewd smile.
"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."
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.
Furthermore, when the widows sought shelter in the monastery, they
found that the brotherhood knew nothing of their strange visitor.
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