n--a kind of reflex or
anti-type of the broad light shining over the water.

"Come up for a while," went on the priest, as they reached the
side-entrance, "if you are not too tired."

The two went through the sacristy-door, locking it behind them, and up
the winding stairs in the turret at the corner to the priest's chamber.
Chris threw himself down, relaxed and happy, in the tall chair by the
window, where he could look out and see the moon, clear of the trees
now, riding high in heaven.

"That was a pity at supper," said the priest presently, as he sat at the
table. "I love Sir Nicholas and think him a good Christian, but he is
scarcely a discreet one."

"Tell me, father," broke out Chris, "what is going to happen?"

Mr. Carleton looked at him smiling. He had a pleasant ugly face, with
little kind eyes and sensitive mouth.

"You must ask Mr. Ralph," he said, "or rather you must not. But he knows
more than any of us."

"I wish he would not speak like that."

"Dear lad," said the priest, "you must not feel it like that. Remember
our Lord bore contempt as well as pain."

There was silence a moment, and then Chris began again. "Tell me about
Lewes, father. What will it be like?"

"It will be bitterly hard," said the priest deliberately. "Christ Church
was too bitter for me, as you know. I came out after six months, and the
Cluniacs are harder. I do not know if I lost my vocation or found it;
but I am not the man to advise you in either case."

"Ralph thinks it is easy enough. He told me last night in the carriage
that I need not trouble myself, and that monks had a very pleasant time.
He began to tell me some tale about Glastonbury, but I would not hear
it."

"Ah," said the chaplain regretfully, "the world's standard for monks is
always high. But you will find it hard enough, especially in the first
year. But, as I said, I am not the man to advise you--I failed."

Chris looked at him with something of pity in his heart, as the priest
fingered the iron pen on the table, and stared with pursed lips and
frowning forehead. The chaplain was extraordinarily silent in public,
just carrying on sufficient conversation not to be peculiar or to seem
morose, but he spoke more freely to Chris, and would often spend an hour
or two in mysterious talk with Sir James. Chris's father had a very
marked respect for the priest, and had had more than one sharp word with
his wife, ten years before when he had first come to the h