gh, the ancient priest, who turned out to have known his father.

"Dear me, are you really the son of James Lidderdale? Why, I used to go
and preach at Lima Street in old days long before your father married.
And so you're Lidderdale's son. Now I wonder why you want to be a monk."

Mark gave an account of himself since he left school and tried to give
some good reasons why he was at Malford.

"And so you were with Rowley? Well, really you ought to know something
about missions by now. But perhaps you're tired of mission work
already?" the old priest inquired with a quick glance at Mark as if he
would see how much of the real stuff existed underneath that
probationer's cassock.

"This is an active Order, isn't it?" Mark countered. "Of course, I'm not
tired of mission work. But after being with Father Rowley and being kept
busy all the time I found that being at home in the country made me
idle. I told the Reverend Father that I hoped to be ordained as a
secular priest and that I did not imagine I had any vocation for the
contemplative life. I have as a matter of fact a great longing for it.
But I don't think that twenty-one is a good age for being quite sure if
that longing is not mere sentiment. I suppose you think I'm just
indulging myself with the decorative side of religion, Father Lamplugh?
I really am not. I can assure you that I'm far too much accustomed to
the decorative side to be greatly influenced by it."

The old priest laid a thin hand on Mark's sleeve.

"To tell the truth, my dear boy, I was on the verge of violating the
decencies of accepted hospitality by criticizing the Order of which you
have become a probationer. I am just a little doubtful about the
efficacy of its method of training young men. However, it really is not
my business, and I hope that I am wrong. But I _am_ a little doubtful if
all these excellent young brethren are really desirous . . . no, I'll
not say another word, I've already disgracefully exceeded the
limitations to criticism that courtesy alone demands of me. I was
carried away by my interest in you when I heard whose son you were. What
a debt we owe to men like your father and Rowley! And here am I at
seventy-six after a long and useless life presuming to criticize other
people. God forgive me!" The old man crossed himself.

That afternoon and evening recreation was unusually noisy, and during
Vespers one or two of the brethren were seized with an attack of giggles
because