as in the
old creature still! and nobody had known, there was so much play in it.

"You are not feeling so well, are you?" said John.

"Not quite so well," he answered.

"The day is cold, and this penance is too much for you."

"No, it's not that. I asked for it, you know, and I like it. It's
something else. To tell you the truth, I'm very foolish in some ways.
When I've got anything on my mind I'm always thinking. Day and night it's
the same with me, and even work----"

His breathing was audible, but he tried to laugh.

"Do you know what it is this time? It's what you said on the roof on the
night of the vows, you remember. What you didn't say, I mean--and that's
just the trouble. It was wrong to talk of the world without great
necessity, but if you had been able to say 'Yes' when I asked if
everybody was well you would have done it, wouldn't you?"

"We'll not talk of that now," said John.

"No, it would be the same fault as before. Still----"

"How keen the air is! And your asthma is so troublesome! You must really
let me speak to the Father."

"Oh, that's nothing. I'm used to it. But if you know yourself what it is
to be always thinking of anybody----"

John called to the dog, and it capered about him. "Good-morning, Brother
Paul." And he went into the house. The lay brother leaned on his besom
and drew a long sigh that seemed to come from the depths of his chest.

John had hastened away, lest his voice should betray him.

"Awful!" he thought. "It must be awful to be always thinking of somebody,
and in fear of what has happened to her. Poor little Polly! She's not
worthy of it, but what does that matter? Blood is blood and love is love,
and only God is stronger."

A few days afterward the air darkened and softened, and snow began to
fall. Between Vespers and Evensong John went up to the tower to see
London under its mantle of white. It was like an Eastern city now under
an Eastern moonlight, and he was listening to the shouts and laughter of
people snowballing in the streets when he heard a laboured step on the
stair behind him. It was Brother Paul coming up with a spade to shovel
away the snow. His features were pinched and contracted, and his young
face was looking old and worn.

"You really must not do it," said John. "To work like this is not
penance, but suicide. I'll speak to the Father, and he'll----"

"Don't; for mercy's sake, don't! Have some pity, at all events! If you
only knew what a go