As they entered the room together the Father hung the key of the gate on one of many hooks above the bed. It was the third hook from the end nearest the window, and the key was an old one with very few wards. John watched all this, and even observed that there were books on the floor, and that a man might stumble if he did not walk warily. The Father picked up one of them. “This is the book, my son. A most precious document, the very mirror of a living human soul. What touched me most, perhaps, were the Father's references to his mother. A monk may not have his mother to himself, and if the love of woman is much to him he is miserable indeed until he has fixed his eyes on the most blessed among women. But the religious life does not destroy natural affection. It only kills in order to bring forth new life. The corn of wheat dies that it may live again. That is the true Christian asceticism, my son, and so it is with our vows. Goodnight!” As John was coming out of the Father's room, he met Brother Andrew going into it, with clean linen over one arm and a ewer of water in the other hand. He threw on his bed in the alcove the book which the Father had given him, and sat down on the form at the door and tried to strengthen himself in his purpose. “The man is dying for the sight of his sister. He can save her soul if he can only see her. It can not be displeasing to the Almighty.” When he lifted his head the house was silent, except for the wind that whistled outside its walls. Presently there was a scarcely perceptible click, as of a door closing, and Brother Andrew came from the direction of the Superior's room. John called to him and he stepped up on tip-toe, for the monk hates noise as an evil spirit. The sprawling features of the big fellow were all smiles. “Has the Father gone to bed?” said John. “Yes.” “Just gone?” “No; half an hour ago.” “Then he will be asleep by this time.” “He was asleep before I left him.” “So he doesn't lock his door on the inside?” “No, never.” “Does the Father sleep soundly?” “Sometimes he does, and sometimes a cat would waken him.” “Brother Andrew----” “Yes.” “Would you do something for me if I wanted, it very much?” “You know I would.” “Even if you had to run some risk?” “I'm not afraid of that” “And if I got you into trouble, perhaps?” “But you wouldn't. _You_ wouldn't get anybody into trouble.” John could go no further. The implicit trust in the simple face was too much for him. “What is it?” said Brother Andrew. “Oh, nothing--nothing at all,” said John. “I was only trying you, but you are too good to be tempted, and I am ashamed. You must go to bed now.” “Can I put out the lights for you?” “No, I'm not ready yet. Ugh! what a cruel wind! A cold night for Brother Paul in the church.” “Tell me, Brother Storm, what is the matter with Brother Paul? He makes me think of my mother, I don't know why.”