"There are some things even you cannot do, and turning saint is one of them." "I would have said as much for you," she returned. "But this morning your face has already begun to play the part. It might belong to the painted window of a chapel." "Is it so uninteresting?" laughed Sir John. "Truly, you and I must devise some wickedness to pass the time until kindred spirits return to the Abbey. Half the monks of Aylingford are in the West, and the nuns find it dull without them." "Next week we will go to town," said Mrs. Dearmer. "I love you, Abbot John, with all the wickedness that is in me, but truly you have grown dull lately." No one was better qualified to pass judgment on Sir John than Mrs. Dearmer. To her he was dull, perhaps the worst crime a man can be guilty of in the eyes of such a woman, yet the accusation did not trouble him now as much as it would have done at another time. He was restless, and if his conscience was too moribund to have the power of pricking, he had become introspective. Fear and superstition took hold of him, and he could not shake himself free. The news which the messenger had brought him was good news, yet, even as the man had delivered it, a candle had guttered and gone out, and Sir John saw a warning of disaster in the fact. He was constantly on the watch for such omens, and saw them within the house and without. He met a new kitchen wench who looked at him with eyes askew, sure sign of evil. Three crows with flapping wings settled at dusk upon the terrace wall and called to him as he passed. A vase of quaint workmanship, brought from the East Indies by his brother, Barbara's father, split suddenly in twain, and Sir John trembled as with an ague at so sure a premonition of evil as this. There were moments when he could not bear to be shut in a room, when the confinement between four walls seemed to stifle him, and like a half suffocated man he would stagger on to the terrace and gasp for breath. He promised Mrs. Dearmer that next week he would go with her to town, and all that day he tried to prove that he was not dull. The effort was successful until the evening, and then came the feeling of suffocation and the need for deep draughts of air. With a muttered excuse he left his guests to their play and laughter, and hurried to the terrace. The night was still, not a breeze stirred in the trees, and the light of a young moon was upon the terrace, casting faint, motionless shadows over greensward and stone flags. For a little while Sir John stood looking down into the stream, which seemed asleep to-night. Upon it the shadows quivered, but scarce a ripple of music came from underneath its banks. A man might well feel some regrets for the past on such a night of peace, might well hear the small voice of conscience distinctly, but with Sir John there was only superstition and fear.