springing pines; and the occasions were stored in his memory with
the glories of St Benedict's Day and Our Lady's Festivals. Away to
the right, within the great enclosure, stretched the Monastery
lands, fair to the eye, with orchard and fruitful field, teeming
with glad, unhurried labour.

At a little elevation, overlooking the whole domain, rose the
Priory buildings, topped by the Church, crown and heart of the
place, signing the sign of the Cross over the daily life and work
of the Brethren, itself the centre of that life, the object of that
work, ever unfinished because love knows not how to make an end.
To the monks it was a page in the history of the life of the Order,
written in stone, blazoned with beauty of the world's treasure; a
page on which each generation might spell out a word, perchance add
a line, to the greater glory of God and St Benedict. They were
always at work on it, stretching out eager hands for the rare
stuffs and precious stones devout men brought from overseas,
finding a place for the best of every ordered craft; their shame an
uncouth line or graceless arch, their glory each completed pinnacle
and fretted spire; ever restoring, enlarging, repairing,
spendthrift of money and time in the service of the House of the
Lord.

The sun shone hot on grey wall and green garth; the spirit of
insistent peace brooded over the place. The wheeling white pigeons
circling the cloister walls cried peace; the sculptured saints in
their niches over the west door gave the blessing of peace; an old,
blind monk crossed the garth with the hesitating gait of habit
lately acquired--on his face was great peace. It rested
everywhere, this peace of prayerful service, where the clang of the