“And how long have you kept your cell?” “Since the octave of Epiphany.” “But this is Lent--rather a long penance, Father.” “I have often urged our dear brother----” began the Father. “You carry your fastings and prayers too far, Mr. Storm,” said the Bishop. He was picking up one by one some black-letter books that were lying on the table and on the bed. “I know that divines in all ages tell us that the body is evil, and that its desires and appetites must be eradicated. But they also teach us that the perfect Christian character is the blending of the two lives, the life of Nature and the life of grace. Don't despise your humanity, my son. Your Master did not despise it. He came down from heaven that he might live and work among the sinful brotherhood of man. And don't pray for death, or fast as if you wished for it. You would have no right to do that even if you were like your poor neighbour next door, whom Death smiles on and beckons to repose. But you are young and you are strong. Who knows what good work your heavenly Father keeps waiting for you yet?” John had returned to the window and was looking out with vacant eyes. “But all this is beside my present business,” said the Bishop. “There is nothing you wish to complain of?” “Nothing whatever.” “You are content to live in this house, under the laws and statutes of this society and in voluntary obedience to its Superior?” “Yes.” “That is enough.” The Bishop was leaving the cell, when his eye was arrested by some writing in pencil on the wall. It ran, “9th of November--Lord Mayor's Day”; and under it were short lines such as a prisoner makes when he keeps a reckoning. “What is the meaning of this date?” said the Bishop. John was silent, but the Father answered with a smile: “That is the date of his vow, my lord. It is part of the discipline of his life of grace to keep count of the days of his novitiate, so eager is he for the time when he may dedicate his whole life to God.” Back at the head of the stairs the Father paused again and said, “Listen!” There was the sound as of a trembling hand turning the key in the lock of the door they had shut behind them, and at the next moment the key itself came out of the aperture under it. When the door closed on the Bishop and John Storm was alone in his cell, one idea was left with him--the idea of work. He had tried everything else, and everything had failed.