There I had much talk with Simon the Cellarer. Meanwhile, as I heard, Thomas accosted certain of the monks as they stood in the Guest House administering to the wants of the poor, and prayed them with vehemence and insistence to lead him to the Abbot. So earnest was his countenance and so strange and convincing his manner, that they knew not how to deny him, especially as Abbot Gregory had notable bowels of compassion, and never denied himself to the poor and afflicted, and they weened he might be wroth if they sent the man away. So they brought him to the Abbot, and he told the Abbot all those things which had happened to him since his going forth overseas, and humbly asked to be admitted to their Order. Then the Abbot sent for me, and partly from the confirmation of my lips, and partly from common rumour, knowing Thomas to have spoken truly, he commanded that he should be taken into the Abbey. So I returned home by myself, and a week or two later Thomas was admitted to the Order as he had asked. But he was very feeble and ill from the time that he came within the Abbey walls. They put him in a bed in their Infirmary, attending him night and day. All through his illness he was very devout in the exercises of religion, as far as the weakness of his body and the strict commands of the Abbot would allow, continually recommending himself to his Maker through the merits of Christ Jesus, Our Lord, and ceaselessly imploring the intercession of Our Lady and All Saints for the remission of his sins. The good Abbot, being filled with pity for the man on account of the grievous trials, with which it had seemed meet to the Lord to try him, had him oftentimes carried from his cell in the Infirmary of the Choir to assist at the Holy Sacrament of the Mass. On the warm days of the late autumn, they would open the little window of his cell and place his bed so that he could gaze towards Hart Hill and Garstang, which he loved above all things. For there in the mellow distance he could watch the white mists swirl round the familiar peaks and woods and fill the remembered valleys as though with fine wool. He watched the wind bend the trees upon the slopes and drive the clouds like a flight of wild geese across the grey sky. Nearer at hand in the Abbey orchard the last red leaves came fluttering down, and he knew that the winter was hard by. Then his stricken face grew bright with some faint foreshining of the joy to come, and his lips moved in prayer. ‘What prayer dost thou pray?’ the Brother who had charge of the Infirmary asked him one day. ‘Good brother, I am thanking God,’ he replied.