ollapse, exhausted."

"He is filled," said his admirers, "by the Spirit of God, and is thus
so energized that he can work incessantly, without experiencing
ordinary human weakness."

And none knew that it was a part of his religion to Symon of Worcester,
to hide his weariness from others.

Yet once when, in her chamber, he sat talking with the Prioress, she
had risen, of a sudden, saying: "You are tired, Father. Rest there in
silence, while I work at my missal."

She had passed to the table; and the Bishop had sat resting, just as he
was sitting now, save that his eyes could then dwell on her face, as
she bent, absorbed, over the illumination.

After a while he had asked: "How knew you that I was tired, my dear
Prioress?"

Without lifting her eyes, she had made answer: "Because, my Lord
Bishop, you twice smiled when there was no occasion for smiling."

Another period of restful silence, while she worked, and he watched her
working. Then he had remarked: "My friends say I am never tired."

And she had answered: "They would speak more truly if they said that
you are ever brave."

It had amazed the Bishop to find himself thus understood. Moreover he
could scarce put on his biretta, so crowned was his head by the laurels
of her praise. Also this had been the only time when he had wondered
whether the Prioress really believed Father Gervaise to be at the
bottom of the ocean. It is ever an astonishment to a man when the
unerring intuition of a woman is brought to bear upon himself.

Now, in this hour of his overwhelming fatigue, he recalled that scene.
Closing his eyes on the distant view, and opening them upon the
enchanted vistas of memory, he speedily saw that calm face, with its
chastened expression of fine self-control, bending above the page she
was illuminating. He saw the severe lines of the wimple, the folds of
the flowing veil, the delicate movement of the long fingers,
and--yes!--resting upon her bosom the jewelled cross, sign of her high
office.

Thus looking back, he vividly recalled the extraordinary restfulness of
sitting there in silence, while she worked. No words were needed. Her
very presence, and the fact that she knew him to be weary, rested him.

He looked again. But now the folds of the wimple and veil were gone.
A golden circlet clasped the shining softness of her hair.

The Bishop opened tired eyes, and fixed them once again upon the
landscape.

He supposed the long rides on