back in his chair, crossing his buckled feet beneath the cassock; "tell
me, why is it so hard? I am not afraid of the discipline or the food."

"It is the silence," said the priest, looking at him.

"I love silence," said Chris eagerly.

"Yes, you love an hour or two, or there would be no hope of a vocation
for you. But I do not think you will love a year. However, I may be
wrong. But it is the day after day that is difficult. And there is no
relaxation; not even in the infirmary. You will have to learn signs in
your novitiate; that is almost the first exercise."

The priest got up and fetched a little book from the corner cupboard.

"Listen," he said, and then began to read aloud the instructions laid
down for the sign-language of novices; how they were to make a circle in
the air for bread since it was round, a motion of drinking for water,
and so forth.

"You see," he said, "you are not even allowed to speak when you ask for
necessaries. And, you know, silence has its peculiar temptations as well
as its joys. There is accidie and scrupulousness and contempt of
others, and a host of snares that you know little of now."

"But--" began Chris.

"Oh, yes; it has its joys, and gives a peculiar strength."

Chris knew, of course, well enough by now in an abstract way what the