Raymond shook his head.  He had no words with which to answer.  He was beginning slowly yet surely to feel his eyes opened to the evil of the world —­ even that world of piety and chivalry of which such bright dreams had been dreamed.  His fair ideals were being gradually dashed and effaced.  Something of sickness of heart had penetrated his being, and he had said in the unconscious fashion of pure-hearted youth, “Vanity of vanities! is all around but vanity?” and he had found no answer to his own pathetic question.

As an almost necessary consequence of all this had his thoughts turned towards the holy, dedicated life of the sons of the Church; and though it was with a strong sense of personal shrinking, with a sense that the sacrifice would be well-nigh bitterer than the bitterness of death, he had asked himself if it might not be that God had called him, and that if he would be faithful to the love he had ever professed to hold, he ought to rise up without farther delay and offer himself to the dedicated service of the Church.

And now Father Paul, who had always seemed to read the very secrets of his heart, appeared about to answer this unspoken question.  Greatly had Raymond longed of late to speak with him again.  Father Anselm was a good and a saintly man, but he knew nothing of the life of the world.  To him the Church was the ark of refuge from all human ills, and gladly would he have welcomed within its fold any weary or world-worn soul.  But with Father Paul it was different.  He had lived in the world; he had sinned (if men spoke truth), and had suffered bitterly.  One look in his face was enough to tell that; and having lived and sinned, repented and suffered, he was far more able to offer counsel to one tempted and sometimes suffering, though perhaps in a very different fashion.

The Father’s eyes were bent upon the faint glow in the sky, seen through the open casement.  His words were spoken quietly, yet with an earnestness that was almost terrible.

“My son,” he said, “I have come back but recently from lands where it seems that holiness should abound —­ that righteousness should flow forth as from a perpetual fountain, where the Lord should be seen walking almost visibly in the midst of His people.  And what have I seen instead?  Luxury, corruption, unspeakable abominations —­ abominations such as I may not dare to speak in thy pure ears, such as I would not have believed had not mine own eyes seen, mine own ears heard.  Where is the poverty, the lowliness, the meekness, the chastity of the sons of the Church?  Ah, God in Heaven only knows; and let it be our solemn rejoicing that He does know where His own faithful children are to be found, for assuredly man would miserably fail if he were sent forth to find and to gather them.  Leaving those lands which thou, my son, hast never seen, and coming hither to France and England, what do we find?  Those who have vowed themselves to the service of the Church walking gaily in the dress