you
love reading?'

Basil answered with simple truth, that of late years he had scarce read
at all, his inclination being rather to the active life.

'So I should have surmised. But chancing to look from my upper window
not long after sunrise, I saw you walking with a book in your hand.
What was it?'

Basil murmured that it was the Book of Psalms.

'Look, then,' said Benedict, 'at what lies before me. Here is a
commentary on that book, written by the learned and pious Cassiodorus;
written in the religious house which he himself has founded, upon the
shore of "ship-wrecking Scylaceum," as saith Virgilius. Not a week ago
it came into my hands, a precious gift from the writer, and I have read
much in it. On the last of his many journeys, travelling from Ravenna
to the south, he climbed hither, and sojourned with us for certain
days, and great was my solace in the communing we had together.
Perchance you knew him in the world?'

Gladly Basil recounted his memories of the great counsellor. And the
abbot listened with an attentive smile.

'I marvel not that you loved him. Reading in these pages, I am
delighted by the graces of his mind, and taught by the sanctity of his
spirit. At the very beginning, how sweetly does his voice sound.
Listen. "Trusting in the Lord's command, I knock at the doors of the
heavenly mystery, that He may open to my understanding His flowery
abodes, and that, permitted to enter the celestial garden, I may pluck
spiritual fruit without the sin of the first man. Verily this book
shines like a lamp; it is the salve of a wounded spirit, sweet as honey
to the inner man. So much hath it of beauty for the senses, such
healing in its balmy words, that to it may be applied the words of
Solomon: 'A closed garden, and a fountain sealed, a paradise abounding
in all fruits.' For if Paradise be deemed desirable because it is
watered by the delightful flow of four rivers, how much more blessed is
the mind which is refreshed by the founts of one hundred and fifty
psalms!"'

Basil scarce heeded the sense of the passage read to him. He could hear
only the soft music of the aged voice, which lulled him into a calm
full of faith and trust.

'Is not this better,' asked Benedict gently, whilst his eyes searched
the young man's countenance, 'than to live for the service of kings,
and to utter worldly counsel?'

'Better far, I cannot doubt,' Basil replied with humility.

'Utter the rest of your thought,' said