rilous perch. The people on a slow schedule, ten
minutes late, never irritated his temper. His correspondence never got
in a heap.

Simeon kept no track of the days, having no engagements to meet, or
offices to perform, beyond the prayers at morn, midday and night.

Memory died in him, the hurts became calluses, the world-pain died out
of his heart, to cling became a habit. Language was lost in disuse. The
food he ate was minimum in quantity; sensation ceased, and the dry, hot
winds reduced bodily tissue to a dessicated something called a
saint--loved, feared and reverenced for his fortitude.

This pillar, which had once graced the portal of a pagan temple, again
became a place of pious pilgrimage, and people flocked to Simeon's rock,
so that they might be near when he stretched out his black, bony hands
to the East, and the spirit of Almighty God, for a space, hovered close
around.

So much attention did the abnegation of Simeon attract that various
other pillars, marking the ruins of art and greatness gone, in that
vicinity, were crowned by pious monks. Their thought was to show how
Christianity had triumphed over heathenism. Imitators were numerous.
About that time the Bishops in assembly asked, "Is Simeon sincere?" To
test the matter of Simeon's pride, he was ordered to come down from his
retreat.

As to his chastity, there was little doubt, and his poverty was beyond
question; but how about obedience to his superiors?

The order was shouted up to him in a Bishop's voice--he must let down
his rope, draw up a ladder, and descend.

Straightway Simeon made preparation to obey. And then the Bishops
relented and cried, "We have changed our minds, and now order you to
remain!"

Simeon lifted his hands in adoration and thankfulness and renewed his
lease.

And so he lived on and on and on--he lived on the top of that pillar,
never once descending, for thirty years.

All of his former companions grew a-weary; one by one they died, and the
monastery-bells tolled their requiem as they were laid to rest. Did
Simeon hear the bells and say, "Soon it will be my turn"?

Probably not. His senses had flown, for what good were they! The young
monk who now at eventide brought the basket with the bottle of goat's
milk and the loaf of dry bread was born since Simeon had taken his place
on the pillar. "He has always been there," the people said, and crossed
themselves hurriedly.

But one evening when the young monk came wi