tion of every part of his being, of hands and eyes, as well
as of the great powers of the soul; what God had joined together man
must not put asunder, and the man who had every physical movement under
control, and never erred through forgetfulness or impulse in these
little matters, presumably also was master of his will, and retained
internal as well as external equanimity.

The great bell began to toll presently for compline, and the
guest-master rose in the midst of his explanations.

"My Lord Prior bade me thank you for the hares," he said. "Perhaps your
servant will take the message back to Mr. Ralph to-morrow. Come."

They went down the stairs together and out into the summer twilight, the
great strokes sounding overhead in the gloom as they walked. Over the
high wall to the left shone a light or two from Lewes town, and beyond
rose up the shadowy masses of the downs over which Christopher had
ridden that afternoon. Over those hills, too, he knew, lay his old home.
As they walked together in silence up the paved walk to the west end of
the church, a vivid picture rose before the young man's eyes of the
little parlour where he had sat last night--of his silent mother in her
black satin; his father in the tall chair, Ralph in an unwontedly easy
and genial mood lounging on the other side and telling stories of town,
of the chaplain with his homely, pleasant face, slipping silently out at
the door. That was the last time that all that was his,--that he had a
right and a place there. If he ever saw it again it would be as a guest
who had become the son of another home, with new rights and relations,
and at the thought a pang of uncontrollable shrinking pricked at his
heart.

But at the door of the church the monk drew his arm within his own for a
moment and held it, and Chris saw the shadowed eyes under his brows rest
on him tenderly.

"God bless you, Chris!" he said.

CHAPTER IV

A COMMISSION

Within a few days of Christopher's departure to Lewes, Ralph also left
Overfield and went back to London.

He was always a little intolerant at home, and generally appeared there
at his worst--caustic, silent, and unsympathetic. It seemed to him that
the simple country life was unbearably insipid; he found there neither
wit nor affairs: to see day after day the same faces, to listen to the
same talk either on country subjects that were distasteful to him, or,
out of compliment to himself, political subjects th