of the large additions which
had been made to the Abbey buildings during the last few years.

"They've put up a grand sort of a lodge--Gatehouse, so some do call it.
A bit after the style of the Tower of London, I've heard some say."

Michael was glad to think that Dom Cuthbert's plans seemed to be coming
to perfection in their course. How long was it since he and Chator were
here? Eight or nine years; now Chator was a priest, and himself had done
nothing.

The Abbey Gatehouse was majestic in the darkness, and the driver pealed
the great bell with a portentous clangor. Michael recognized the
pock-marked brother who opened the door; but he could not remember his
name. He felt it would be rather absurd to ask the monk if he recognized
him by this wavering lanthorn-light.

"Is the Reverend--is Dom Cuthbert at the Abbey now?" he asked. "You
don't remember me, I expect? Michael Fane. I stayed here one Autumn
eight or nine years ago."

The monk held up the lanthorn and stared at him.

"The Reverend Father is in the Guest Room now," said Brother Ambrose.
Michael had suddenly recalled his name.

"Do you think I shall be able to stay here to-night? Or have you a lot
of guests for Easter?"

"We can always find room," said Brother Ambrose. Michael dismissed his
driver and followed the monk along the drive.

Dom Cuthbert knew him at once, and seemed very glad that he had come to
the Abbey.

"You can have a cell in the Gatehouse. Our new Gatehouse. It's copied
from the one at Cerne Abbas in Dorsetshire. Very beautiful. Very
beautiful."

Michael was introduced to the three or four guests, all types of
ecclesiastical laymen, who had been talking with the Abbot. The Compline
bell rang almost at once, and the Office was still held in the little
chapel of mud and laths built by the hands of the monks.

Keep me as the apple of an eye.
Hide me in the shadow of thy wing.

Here was worship unhampered by problems of social behavior: here was
peace.

Lying awake that night in his cell; watching the lattices very luminous
in the moonlight; hearing the April wind in the hazel coppice, Michael
tried to reach a perspective of his life these nine months since Oxford,
but sleep came to him and pacified all confusions. He went to Mass next
morning, but did not make his Communion, because he had a feeling that
he could only have done so under false pretenses. There was no reason
why he should have felt thus, he assured hims