Here Brother Francis arraigned the saints before him for his selection, gave him their history in brief. This was pleasant enough occupation. To sit on an old stone seat in the garden, to hear the humming of the bees among the flowers mingling with the musical voice of Brother Francis, was a joy to the small selector. He lent grave ear to the telling. Coming to St. Michael he embraced him readily. Here was warrior enough to delight his heart. He saw himself well protected in the future. An’ the Saint himself had other matters on hand, what simpler than that he should order a deputy to take charge? This thought he made naïvely known, thereby causing Brother Francis to smile. The choice found as great favour with him as with the child. Very scrupulous, the boy avoided the smallest claim to the name till it should be his by right. “Child” he still remained. It was on the Feast of St. Luke, a glorious day of the Saint’s own summer, that Abbot Hilary gave it to him. He had no mind to keep him waiting over long. Conversant with the main truths of Christianity, their elaboration could come later. Early in the morning, the day yet barely awake, Brother Francis roused the child, clad him in the white robe of the catechumen. To the east the sky was shot with pearly light. Birds twittered from the bushes in the garden below. The soft air came through the window. “’Tis your true birthday morning,” said Brother Francis smiling, as he led him from the room. The child was very quiet. You see him humble, trustful; his spirit wrapped in implicit faith. The Unseen World with which he would presently be in communion already enfolded him in its vastness. He felt unconsciously that to which he could assuredly have given no word. Where formerly his soul in bondage to another, possessed by another’s will, had striven to storm unlawful heights, and thereby in a measure,—through no actual fault of his own,—had become co-operator with Satanic cunning, now trustful, with full and quiet Act of Faith, it awaited the Divine Gift. A soft grey light was in the chapel, though night shadows lingered yet in the corners. A faint breath of incense pervaded the place. Man and boy bent the knee in honour of Christ in the Blessed Sacrament, then knelt near the font. To them came Abbot Hilary. Throughout the ceremony the child held himself very simply. When the holy water touched his forehead, and he heard the words, “_In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus sancti_,” he fetched a little sigh. Here the assurance of safe harbourage had come to his soul. From thence he could look forward nothing doubting. Methinks his child’s heart sang a Te Deum as presently Brother Francis led him to a pew near the altar that he might hear the Abbot’s Mass. Gravely happy he knelt there, seeing the future in a glow of soft light.