IN THE ABBOT’S BEE-GARDEN | 115 
upward over the face of the old building, that you 
realised what it all meant. From its foundation to” 
the highest stone of the ancient bell-turret, the 
whole front of the place was thickly mantled with 
ivy in full flower, and every yellow tuft of blossom 
was besieged with bees. There seemed tens of 
thousands of them, hovering and humming every- 
where; and thousands more arriving with every 
moment out of the blue air, or darting off again 
fully laden, and away to some invisible bourne over 
the ruddy roof of orchard trees. 
Intent on this vociferous wonder, you do not 
catch the footfall on the gravel-path in your rear, 
or see the sombre figure of the Abbot as he comes 
towards you, the sweep of his black frock setting 
all the marigolds nodding behind him, as though 
from a sudden flaw of wind. And now you have 
another pleasurable disillusionment as to monkish 
conditions of being. Trudging along the deep-cut 
Devonshire lanes on your way to the Abbey, 
through the rain of falling autumn leaves, you 
pictured the place to yourself as a kind of sacred 
sink of desolation, inhabited by a crew of sour- 
visaged anchorites, who found only godlessness in 
sunshine, and in cakes-and-ale nothing but assured 
perdition. But here, coming towards you, smiling, 
and with outstretched hand, is the last kind of 
human being you expected to see. Clad from head 
to foot in sober black, with, for ornament, but the 
one plain silver cross swinging at his breast, the 
Abbot shows, unmistakably, for a gentleman of 
cultured and enlightened mien. A fine, swarthy 
face, kind, calm eyes behind gold spectacles, a 
voice like an old violin, and a grip of the hand that 
