"Now may God be good to us!" he cried with uplifted hands. "Since
when did man paint the Blessed Mother with grey eyes and black
hair--curly too, i' faith?"

Hilarius crimsoned, he was weary of limning ever with blue and
gold, he faltered.

It was the same in chapel. The insistent question pursued him
through chant and psalm. Did he really LOVE the Saints--St
Benedict, St Scholastica, St Bernard, St Hilary? The names left
him untouched; but his lips quivered as he thought of the great
love between the holy brother and sister of his Order. If he had
had a sister would they have loved like that?

The Saints' Days came and went, and he scourged himself with the
repeated question, kneeling with burning cheeks, and eyes from
which tears were not absent, in the Chapel of the Great Mother.
"Light of Love," the girl had called his mother; what more
beautiful name could he find for the Queen of Saints herself? So
he prayed in his simplicity:- "Great Light of Love, Mother of my
mother, grant love, love, love, to thy poor sinful son!"

The question came in his daily life.

Did he love the Prior? He feared him; and his voice was for
Hilarius as the voice of God Himself. Brother John? He feared him
too; Brother John's tongue was a thing to fear. Brother Richard,
old, half-blind? Surely he loved Brother Richard?--sad, helpless,
and lonely, by reason of his infirmities--or was it only pity he