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 are sometimes found helpless beneath the lovely bushes.

As we came near the monastery Father Arsenius shaded his eyes with his hand and gazed over toward the mountain ridge beyond.

"The wind is rising. It will be very high to-*night," he said.

The conversation with the monk had put me into a deep religious fervour. I fell asleep that night in the church, and dreamed of the monk who had travelled over land and sea, following the sound of a bell.

How long I slept I cannot tell when I awoke in terror. I sat up and peered around by the dim light of the kandillas burning before the icons of the various saints. The large glass candelabra hanging from the ceiling were swaying to and fro, jingling their crystals, producing a ghastly sound. The bells on St George's icon were tinkling; two or three windows slammed, and there was a rushing sound through the church. It all lasted only a short time, and then quietness returned.

My mother awoke, though she was not so light a sleeper as I. "What is it?" she asked startled.

"It is St George coming back," I answered.

We both fell to praying, and I did not sleep any more that night. And my heart was filled with pride that I had heard the coming of the saint.

At the end of my three days' fast, mass was