rushed to his mind, and his gloom rather deepened than grew less. The
rising-bell had rung, and he rose languidly in the cold, gray twilight.
So long had he tossed restlessly in the night unsleeping that he felt
worn out and miserable, and after the hours which he had necessarily
kept at the house of his cousin half past five seemed hardly to be day.
He shivered with a discouraged disgust as he made his toilet,
endeavoring to forget.

The routine of the morning followed: meditation, lauds and prayers;
mass; breakfast; prime; then the study hours before luncheon; and so on
to nones. All this time the rule of the house protected him from
speech, but now that the hour for recreation came he was in the midst
of questioning fellow-deacons. They had all so much to tell, however,
of the manner in which they had passed their time during their absence
from the Clergy House that Maurice was able for the most part to listen
instead of speaking. He watched with curiosity to see that they
appeared glad to return to seclusion. They had been troubled by the
sensation of finding themselves out of their accustomed groove, and had
found the world confusing. Most often they seemed to him to have been
oppressed by the need of deciding what they should do, and how they
should meet trifling unforeseen emergencies.

"It is impossible to be spiritually calm except in seclusion," one of
them said.

Involuntarily Maurice looked at the speaker, feeling that this must be
mere cant. It struck him as nonsense, yet one glance at the serene,
honest face of the deacon who spoke, with its tender, candid eyes, like
those of a pure girl, was enough to convince him of the entire
sincerity of the words. He sighed, and turned away; as he did so he