There was an air of extraordinary peace and purity about this place, thought Monsignor. Whiteness was the predominating colour--whiteness beneath, and whiteness running up high on the right on to the hills--and above the amazing blue of the southern sky. It was high and glorious summer about them, with a breeze as intoxicating as wine and as fresh as water. From across the Place they could hear the quick flapping of the huge Mary banner that flew above the hall, for there were no wheels or motors here to crush out the acuteness of the ear. The transference of the sick from the hostels above the town was carried out by aeroplanes--great winged decks, with awnings above and at the sides, that slid down as if on invisible lines, to the entrance of the other side of the hall, whence after a daily examination by the doctors they were taken on by hand-litters to the grotto or the bathing-pools. * * * * * Monsignor heard a step behind him as he stood and looked, still pathetically bewildered by all that he saw, and still struggling, in spite of himself, with a new upbreak of scepticism; and turning, saw Father Jervis in the act of greeting a young monk in the Benedictine habit. "I knew we should meet. I heard you were here," the old man was exclaiming. "You remember Monsignor Masterman?" They shook hands, and Monsignor was not disappointed in his friend's tact. "Father Adrian absolutely haunts Lourdes nowadays," went on Father Jervis. "I wonder his superiors allow him. And how's the book getting on?" The monk smiled. He was an exceedingly pleasant person to look upon, with a thin, refined face and large, startlingly blue eyes. He shook his head as he smiled. "I'm getting frightened," he said. "I cannot see with the theologians in all points. Well, the least said, the soonest mended." Father Jervis' face had fallen a little. There was distinct anxiety in his eyes. "When will the book be out?" he asked quickly. "I'm revising for the last time," said the other shortly. "And you, Monsignor? . . . I had heard of your illness." "Oh, Monsignor's nearly himself again. And will you take us into the Bureau?" asked the old priest. The young monk nodded. "I shall be there all day," he said. "Ask for me at any time." "Monsignor wants to see for himself. He wants to see a case straight through. Is there anything----" "Why, there's the very thing," interrupted the monk. (He fumbled in his pocket a moment.) "Yes, here's the leaflet that was issued last night." (He held out a printed piece of paper to Monsignor.) "Read that through." The prelate took it. "What's the case?" he asked. "The leaflet will give you the details. It's decay of the optic nerve--a Russian from St. Petersburg. Both eyes completely blind, the nerves destroyed, and he saw light yesterday for the first time. He'll be down from the Russian hospice about eleven. We expect a cure to-day or to-morrow."