“How keen the air is! And your asthma is so troublesome! You must really let me speak to the Father.” “Oh, that's nothing. I'm used to it. But if you know yourself what it is to be always thinking of anybody----” John called to the dog, and it capered about him. “Good-morning, Brother Paul.” And he went into the house. The lay brother leaned on his besom and drew a long sigh that seemed to come from the depths of his chest. John had hastened away, lest his voice should betray him. “Awful!” he thought. “It must be awful to be always thinking of somebody, and in fear of what has happened to her. Poor little Polly! She's not worthy of it, but what does that matter? Blood is blood and love is love, and only God is stronger.” A few days afterward the air darkened and softened, and snow began to fall. Between Vespers and Evensong John went up to the tower to see London under its mantle of white. It was like an Eastern city now under an Eastern moonlight, and he was listening to the shouts and laughter of people snowballing in the streets when he heard a laboured step on the stair behind him. It was Brother Paul coming up with a spade to shovel away the snow. His features were pinched and contracted, and his young face was looking old and worn. “You really must not do it,” said John. “To work like this is not penance, but suicide. I'll speak to the Father, and he'll----” “Don't; for mercy's sake, don't! Have some pity, at all events! If you only knew what a good thing work is for me--how it drives away thoughts, and stifles----” “But it's so useless, Brother Paul. Look! The snow is still falling, and there's more to come yet.” “All the same, it's good for me. When I'm very tired I can sleep sometimes. And then God is good to you if you don't spare yourself. Some day perhaps he'll tell me something.” “He'll tell us everything in his own good time, Brother Paul.” “It's easy to counsel patience. If I were like you I should be counting the days until my time was over, and that would help me to bear things. But when you are dedicated for life----” He stopped at his work and looked over the parapet, and seemed to be gazing into the weary days to come. “Have you anybody of your own out there?” “You mean any----” “Any relative--any sister?” “No.” “Then you don't know what it is; that's why you won't give me an answer.” “Don't ask me, Brother Paul.” “Why not?” “It might only make you the more uneasy if I told you what----” The lay brother let his spade fall, then slowly, very slowly, picked it up again and said: “I understand. You needn't say any more. I shall never ask you again.” The bell rang for Evensong, and John hurried away. “If it were only some one who was deserving of it!” he thought--“some one who was worthy that a man should risk his soul to save her!”