A few days afterward the air darkened and softened, and snow began to fall. Between Vespers and Evensong John went up to the tower to see London under its mantle of white. It was like an Eastern city now under an Eastern moonlight, and he was listening to the shouts and laughter of people snowballing in the streets when he heard a laboured step on the stair behind him. It was Brother Paul coming up with a spade to shovel away the snow. His features were pinched and contracted, and his young face was looking old and worn.
“You really must not do it,” said John. “To work like this is not penance, but suicide. I'll speak to the Father, and he'll——”
“Don't; for mercy's sake, don't! Have some pity, at all events! If you only knew what a good thing work is for me—how it drives away thoughts, and stifles——”
“But it's so useless, Brother Paul. Look! The snow is still falling, and there's more to come yet.”
“All the same, it's good for me. When I'm very tired I can sleep sometimes. And then God is good to you if you don't spare yourself. Some day perhaps he'll tell me something.”
“He'll tell us everything in his own good time, Brother Paul.”
“It's easy to counsel patience. If I were like you I should be counting the days until my time was over, and that would help me to bear things. But when you are dedicated for life——”
He stopped at his work and looked over the parapet, and seemed to be gazing into the weary days to come.
“Have you anybody of your own out there?”
“You mean any——”