And it was also a marvel that they did not see how incessant labor was wearing out the always feeble frame.
Brother Marcus, tall, pale, and thoughtful was too deeply absorbed in meditation.
Brother Rufus had always a mirthfully cordial greeting, as he hurried by; but he was ever in haste. The brethren were all busy, each in his own way. They were holy men, with much thinking and praying to do, and Brother All-Work never would have expected them to notice the tired looks of a poor scullion, or to ask if his back ached, or his head was heavy.
He went hither and thither, day after day, doing their behests, always smiling; always with the far-away light in his eyes of One who has had a beautiful dream and believes it will come true.
One day another stranger stood at the door of the monastery,—not poor or crippled, but of kingly bearing, and with the air of one unused to beg for alms.
