last to believe in his miracles, or whether the old man had that
upon his mind of which he longed to unburthen himself, he began to
answer questions, and Reginald delighted to listen and note down
till he had finished, he says, that book of his life and miracles;
{316} and after a while brought it to the saint, and falling on his
knees, begged him to bless, in the name of God, and for the benefit
of the faithful, the deeds of a certain religious man, who had
suffered much for God in this life which he (Reginald) had composed
accurately. The old man perceived that he himself was the subject,
blessed the book with solemn words (what was written therein he does
not seem to have read), and bade Reginald conceal it till his death,
warning him that a time would come when he should suffer rough and
bitter things on account of that book, from those who envied him.
That prophecy, says Reginald, came to pass; but how, or why, he does
not tell. There may have been, among those shrewd Northumbrian
heads, even then, incredulous men, who used their common sense.

But the story which Godric told was wild and beautiful; and though
we must not depend too much on the accuracy of the old man's
recollections, or on the honesty of Reginald's report, who would
naturally omit all incidents which made against his hero's
perfection, it is worth listening to, as a vivid sketch of the
doings of a real human being, in that misty distance of the Early
Middle Age.

He was born, he said, at Walpole, in Norfolk, on the old Roman sea-
bank, between the Wash and the deep Fens. His father's name was
AEilward; his mother's, AEdwen--"the Keeper of Blessedness," and
"the Friend of Blessedness," as Reginald translates them--poor and
pious folk; and, being a sharp boy, he did not take to field-work,