f God. May we all be as
ready when our call comes!"

They came back to the corridor, and John heard their footsteps going
downstairs. Then for some minutes there were unusual noises below. Rapid
steps were coming and going, the hall bell was ringing, and the front
door was opening and shutting.

An hour later Brother Andrew came with the breakfast. He was obviously
excited, and putting down the tray he began to busy himself in the room
and to sing, as before, in, his pretence of a Gregorian chant:

"Brother Paul is dead--he died in the night--there was nobody with
him--we are sorry he has left us, but glad he is at peace-God rest the
soul of our poor Brother Paul!"

It was Easter Day. At midday service in the church the brothers sang the
Easter hymn, and a mighty longing took hold of John Storm for his own
resurrection from his living grave.

Next day there was much coming and going between the world outside and
the adjoining cell, and late at night there were heavy and shambling
footsteps, and even some coarse and ribald talk.

"Bear a 'and, myte."

"Well, they won't have their backs broke as carry this one downstairs. He
ain't a Danny Lambert, anyway."

"No, they don't feed ye on Bovril in plyces syme as this. I'll lay ye
odds yer own looking-glass wouldn't know ye arter three months 'ard on
religion and dry tommy."

"It pawses me 'ow people tyke to it. Gimme my pint of four-half, and my
own childring to follow me."

Early on the following morning a stroke rang out on the bell, then
another stroke, and again another.

"It is the knell," thought John.

A group of the lay brothers came up and passed into the room. "Now!" said
one, as if giving a signal, and then they passed out again with the
measured steps of men who bear a burden. "They are taking him away," he
thought.

He listened to their retreating footsteps. "He has gone," he murmured.

The passing bell continued to ring out minute by minute, and presently
there was the sound of singing. "It is the service for the dead," he told
himself.

After a while both the bell and the singing ceased, and then there was no
sound anywhere except the dull rumble of the traffic in the city
outside--the deep murmur of the mighty sea that flows on forever.

"What am I doing?" he asked himself. "What bolts and bars are keeping me?
I am guilty of a folly. I am degrading myself."

At midday Brother Andrew came with his food. "Brother Paul is buried," he
sang,