fter a
moment, "and I am sure he will be, if his call is from God, as I think
likely. I was with the Carthusians myself, you know, for four years,
and sometimes I think I should have stayed there. It is a blessed life.
I do not envy many folks, but I do those. To live in the daily
companionship of our blessed Lord and of his saints as those do, and to
know His secrets--_secreta Domini_--even the secrets of His Passion and
its ineffable joys of pain--that is a very fortunate lot, Mr. Torridon.
I sometimes think that as it was with Christ's natural body so it is
with His mystical body: there be some members, His hands and feet and
side, through which the nails are thrust, though indeed there is not one
whole spot in His body--_inglorious erit inter viros aspectus ejus--nos
putavimus eum quasi leprosum_--but those parts of His body that are
especially pained are at once more honourable and more happy than those
that are not. And the monks are those happy members."

He was speaking very solemnly, his voice a little tremulous, and his
kindly eyes were cast down, and Ralph watched him sidelong with a little
awe and pity mingled. He seemed so natural too, that Ralph thought that
he must have over-rated his own indiscretion.

A shadow fell across the door into the garden as they came near it, and
one of the girls appeared in the opening.

"Why, Meg," cried her father, "what is it, my darling?"

"Beatrice has come, sir," said the girl. "I thought you would wish to
know."

More put out his arm and laid it round his daughter's waist as she
turned with him.

"Come, Mr. Torridon," he said, "if you have no more to say, let us go
and see Beatrice."

There was a group on the lawn under one of the lime trees, two or three
girls and Mr. Roper, who all rose to their feet as the three came up.
More immediately sat down on the grass, putting his feet delicately
together before him.

"Will, fetch this gentleman a chair. It is not fit for Master
Cromwell's friend to sit on the grass like you and me."

Ralph threw himself down on the lawn instantly, entreating Mr. Roper not
to move.

"Well, well," said Sir Thomas, "let be. Sit down too, Will, _et cubito
remanete presso_. Mr. Torridon understands that, I know, even if Master
Cromwell's friend does not. Why, tillie-vallie, as Mrs. More says, I
have not said a word to Beatrice. Beatrice, this is Mr. Ralph Torridon,
and this, Mr. Torridon, is Beatrice. Her other name is Atherton, but