Brother Thomas - God rest his soul! - was wont to give savoury mess easy of eating to the elder Brethren."

"Ay, he was a kind man with all his faults," said Brother Anselm, fingering his toothless gums. "Think you 'twould be well to speak of this matter to the Prior?"

"Nay, nay," said the other, "he is ever against any store being set on the things of this world - ''tis well for the greater discipline of the flesh,' so saith he ever. Still he hath forbidden the blood-letting to us elder Brethren."

"Methinks there is little to let, since Brother Thomas died," said Brother Anselm ruefully.

"Nay, then, let us seek out the Cellarer and admonish him - maybe he will hear a word in season," and the two old monks moved slowly away to the Cellarer's office as Prior Stephen came down the cloister walk.

He looked little older, his carriage was upright as ever, but government sat heavy upon him; the keen, ascetic face was weary, and the line of the lips showed care. His thoughts were busy with Hilarius. It was now full six years that the lad had left the Monastery, and since the Christmas after his going no news had come of him, save that he never reached St Alban's. Had the Plague gathered him as it gathered many another well-beloved son? Or had the awakening proved too sudden for the lad set blind-eyed without the gate?

He passed from the cloister into the garth where bloomed the lilies that Hilarius had loved so well. He looked at the row of nameless graves with the great Rood for their common memorial; last but one lay the resting-place of Brother Richard, and the blind monk's dying speech had been of the lad whose face he had strained his eyes to see.

Prior Stephen stood by the farmery door, and the scent of Mary's flowers came to him as it had come to Hilarius at the gate. He stretched out his hands with the strange pathetic gesture of a strong man helpless. It was all passing fair: the fields of pale young corn trembling in the gentle breeze; the orchards and vineyards with fast maturing fruit; the meadows where the sleek kine browsed languidly in the warm summer sunshine. Peace and prosperity everywhere; the old Church springing into new beauty as the spire rose slowly skywards; peace and prosperity, new glories for the House of the Lord; and yet, and yet, his heart ached for his own helplessness, and for the exceeding longing that he had for the boy whose mother once held that heart in the hollow of her little hand.

Ah well, blessed be God who had called him from the things of this world to the service of Christ and the Church! Once again he offered himself in the flame of his desires: he would fast and pray and wait.

The Office bell sounded sharp and clear across the still summer air calling to Vespers, and the Prior hasted to his place.

"Qui seminant in lachrymis in exultatione metent," chanted the deep voices of the monks, and Prior Stephen's voice trembled as he joined in the Psalmody.

"Euntes ibant et flebant mittentes semina sua. Venientes autem venient cum exultatione portantes manipulos suos."

He had sown in tears, ay, and was weary of the sowing; but the harvesting was not yet.