venty
hungry monks, who for many days had had only a few olives to eat. And
they blamed one man for all their suffering. It was Fronto who had
induced them to leave the pleasant monastery at Nitria, where the rest
of their brethren were living in peace and plenty. It was Fronto who had
led them into this miserable desert to serve God in solitude, as holy
men loved to do in the early days of Christendom.

Fronto was a holy man, full of faith and courage. He had promised that
they should be fed and cared for in the desert even though they took no
care for themselves, and they had believed him. So each monk took a few
olives in his pouch and a double-pronged hoe to dig and plant corn with,
and followed Fronto into the desert.

After trudging many days they found this spot, far to the east, where no
caravans would come to interrupt them, for it was out of the way of
travel. But soon also they found their provisions gone and no others
forthcoming. What were they to do? They asked Fronto, but he only bade
them be patient. It was when they had borne the pangs of hunger for
several days that they began to grumble and talk of returning home. But
Fronto was indignant. "The Lord will provide," he said, "O ye of little
faith!" And he bade them go to work and try to forget their hunger. The
monks drew the cords tighter about their waists. But that did little
good. They had never fasted like this before! Day by day they grew more
pale and thin, and their long robes flapped about their lean limbs. The
few dates which grew on the palm-trees of their oasis were long since
eaten, and the poor monks went about chewing the knotted ends of their
rope girdles, trying to pretend that it was bread. Oh, how they longed
for even a bit of the hard black bread which was Lenten fare at the
monastery beyond the hills!

Day by day they grew more hollow-cheeked and despairing. At last one
evening they came to Fronto in a body--such a weak, pale body. "Take us
back to Nitria, or we starve!" they cried. "We can endure this no
longer!"

Fronto stood before them even more pale and worn than the rest, but with
the light of beautiful trust in his eyes. "Wait yet a little longer,
brothers," he begged. "We are bidden to take no thought to the morrow,
what we shall eat and drink"--

"Nay, 'tis to-day we think of," interrupted the monks. "If we could eat
to-day we would indeed take no thought of the morrow. But we starve!"

"Patience, brothers," continue