But the porter, although rheumatic and grumpy, knew good fish when he saw
them, and considered them just the thing for the Abbot's supper. He let
Padraig in by the wicket gate, the door with a grating in it set in the
big door and only about a third as large. Soon the boy was sitting by the
kitchen fire eating a bowl of the most delicious broth he had ever tasted.
Round-faced Brother Hilarius, who had charge of the kitchens, was in so
good a humor over the trout that he suggested to Padraig that he might
herd sheep for the Abbey. The monks did a great deal of the work about
their farms and in their workshops themselves, but there was still much to
do, and they were usually willing to give work to anybody who did not ask
for more than food and lodging.

Padraig liked the Abbey, but he would probably have gone on before very
long had he not found something which interested him more than anything
else ever had. Brother Sebastian, the head shepherd, sent him one day to a
part of the buildings he had not before seen. The long stone-walled,
stone-floored room had little stalls down one side, each with its wooden
bench and reading-desk. On one of these desks lay open the first book
Padraig had ever seen.

It was not printed, but written, each letter carefully drawn with a quill
pen. The initials of the chapters, and the border around each page, had
been painted in an ornamental design like a tangle of leaves and vines, in
bright red, green, yellow, brown, black, blue. Twisted vines bore fruits,
flowers, tiny animals and birds, here and there a saint, angel or cherub.
The monk who was doing this illuminating was too much absorbed in his work
to know that any one had come in, at first. When he looked up and saw
Padraig standing there he smiled very kindly.