We were killing time in the library one afternoon, the Director and a Swiss Brother sitting by the lamp reading, I standing at one of the tall, narrow windows, drumming on the panes and dreaming.  The view was not an inspiring one.  There was a long horizontal line of pale yellow sky and another of flat, black land, out of which an occasional poplar raised itself solemnly.  The great mass below the stripes was brown; above, gloomy gray.  Close under the window two boys were playing in the garden of the house.  I recall distinctly that they threw armfuls of wet fallen leaves at each other with a great shouting.  While I stood thus, the Brother Servitor, Abonus, came in and whispered to the Director.  He always whispered.  It was not fraternal, but I did not like this Abonus.

“Send him up here,” said the Director.  Then I remembered that I had heard the roll of a carriage and the bell ring a few moments before.  Abonus came in again.  Behind him there was some one else, whose footsteps had the hesitating sound of a stranger’s.  Then I heard the Director’s voice: 

“You are from Algiers?”

“I am, Brother.”

“Your name?”

“Edouard, Brother.”

“Well, tell me more.”

“I was under orders to be in Paris in January, Brother.  As my health was poor, I received permission to come back to France this autumn.  At Marseilles I was instructed to come here.  So I am here.  I have these papers from the Mother house, and from Etienne, Director, of Algiers.”

Something in the voice seemed peculiar to me.  I turned and examined the new-comer.  He stood behind and to one side of the Director, who was laboriously deciphering some papers through his big horn spectacles.  The light was not very bright, but there was enough to see a wonderfully handsome face, framed in dazzling black curls.  Perhaps it looked the more beautiful because contrasted with the shaven gray poll and surly features of grim Abonus.  But to me it was a dream of St. John the Evangel.  The eyes of the face were lowered upon the Director, so I could only guess their brilliancy.  The features were those of an extreme youth—­round, soft, and delicate.  The expression was one of utter fatigue, almost pain.  It bore out the statement of ill-health.

The Director had finished his reading.  He lifted his head now and surveyed the stranger in turn.  Finally, stretching out his fat hand, he said: 

“You are welcome, Brother Edouard.  I see the letter says you have had no experience except with the youngest children.  Brother Photius does that now.  We will have you rest for a time.  Then we will see about it.  Meanwhile I will turn you over to the care of good Abonus, who will give you one of the north rooms.”

So the two went out, Abonus shuffling his feet disagreeably.  It was strange that he could do nothing to please me.

“Brother Sebastian,” said the Director, as the door closed, “it is curious that they should have sent me a tenth man.  Why, I lie awake now to invent pretences of work for those I have already.  I will give up all show of teaching presently, and give out that I keep a hospital—­a retreat for ailing brothers.  Still, this Edouard is a pretty boy.”