To the monk, as to many another, failing to see was failing to believe. With a heavy heart he wandered forth into the convent garden carrying his problem with him. _Quod erat demonstrandum_: would a greater intercede in his behalf? Time slipped by unawares. It was late at night when he regained the convent gate, but those who opened in answer to his call knew him not. His talk, his appearance, his manner were strange to them, and yet there was that in him which commanded attention--he was like as well as unlike. They admitted him, and after a while the memory of an old, old story came to one of the monks who listened to him--how long ago a member of the fraternity had been troubled in his mind and had wandered forth and never returned, but it had always been believed by some that he was still among the living. After much seeking his name was found in an old convent register. It was the name of the monk who had returned after a thousand years. Then they saw him as one of themselves. The miracle was accomplished. And the monk understood that eternities which are the products of human conception hold good for man only. God’s eternities may be different. It is said that a short time afterwards he passed away from life in peace. And would it be very different if that monk had been one of the companions of St Romuald here at Camaldoli, nay not quite a thousand, just nine hundred years ago? If he came back now would he know these surroundings for those he had left? Would he feel it the same world as it was then, ruled by the same ideas--that a simple life is conducive to elevation of mind, and that the air of the heights and the pure water of undefiled springs make the body strong to withstand evil? And would they too know him as one of themselves, those venerable monks, bent with age and dignified in bearing, who were approaching the monastery along the upper road as we neared it along the lower? Their woollen robes of many folds were white, such as Romuald in his dream beheld his companions wearing, when, like Jacob, he saw a ladder set up on the earth and reaching up to heaven, and his monks were the angels ascending and descending on it. These men had drawn their hoods over their heads, and over them they wore large, wide-brimmed Tuscan straw hats. They were neatly stockinged and shoed, and most of them had flowing beards and a complexion that reminded one of the delicate tints of crumpled rose-leaves. To us they were figures of a distant past, and it was wonderful to think that if one of the old monks of Romuald’s time were to come among them, the great difference in them would be the first thing to strike him.