le of the
monastery. He learned that the day was equitably portioned out (worship
apart) between manual and mental work. During summer, the cooler hours
of morning and afternoon were spent in the field, and the middle of the
day in study; winter saw this order reversed. On Sunday the monks
laboured not with their hands, and thought only of the Word of God. The
hours of the divine office suffered, of course, no change all the year
round: their number in the daytime was dictated by that verse of the
Psalmist: 'Septies in die laudem dixi tibi'; therefore did the
community assemble at lauds, at prime, at the third hour, at mid-day,
at the ninth hour, at vespers, and at compline. They arose, moreover,
for prayer at midnight, and for matins before dawn. On all this the
hearer mused when he was left alone, and with his musing blended a
sense of peace such as had never before entered into his heart.

He had returned to his chamber, and was reposing on the bed, when there
entered one of the two monks by whom he was conveyed up the mountain.
With happy face, this visitor presented to him a new volume, which, he
declared with modest pride, was from beginning to end the work of his
own hand.

'But an hour ago I finished the binding,' he added, stroking the
calf-skin affectionately. 'And when I laid it before the venerable
father, who is always indulgent to those who do their best, he was
pleased to speak kind things. "Take it to our noble guest," he said,
"that he may see how we use the hours God grants us. And it may be that
he would like to read therein."'

The book was a beautiful copy of Augustine's _De Civitate Dei_. Basil
did indeed peruse a page or two, but again his thoughts began to
wander. He turned the leaves, looking with pleasure at the fine initial
letters in red ink. They reminded him of his cousin Decius, whom a
noble manuscript would transport with joy. And thought of Decius took
him back to Surrentum. He fell into a dream.

On the morrow, at noon, he was well enough to descend to the refectory,
where he had a seat at the abbot's table. His meal consisted of a roast
pigeon, a plate of vegetables, honey and grapes, with bread which
seemed to him better than he had ever tasted, and wine whereof his
still weak head bade him partake very modestly. The abbot's dinner, he
saw, was much simpler: a bowl of milk, a slice of bread, and a couple
of figs. After the kindly greeting with which he was received, there
was no