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“Away! Away,” was the short funereal service.

The star in the rosy red atmosphere saw this, and two heavy tears
trembled on the deathly pale cheeks of the fever sick one–sick unto
death, as they called him.

The lay brother Ignatius came to him as a friend and as a physician.
He came, and with the consoling words of religion, he spoke of the
peace and happiness of the church, of the sins of man, of the mercy
and peace of God.

The words fell like warm sun beams on the moist, fermenting ground;
they dispersed and cleared away the misty clouds, from the troubled
thoughts which had held possession of him; he gazed upon his past
life; everything had been a failure, a deception–yes, had been. Art
was an enchantress, that but leads us into vanity, into earthly
pleasures. We become false to ourselves, false to our friends, false
to our God. The serpent speaks ever in us: “Taste and thou shalt
become like unto God.”

Now, for the first time, he appeared to understand himself, to have
discovered the road to truth, to peace.

In the church was God’s light and brightness, in the monk’s cell was
found that peace, which enables man to obtain eternal bliss.

Brother Ignatius supported him in these thoughts, and the decision was
firmly made–a worldling became a servant of the church;–the young
artist took leave of the world, and entered the cloister.

How joyfully, how cordially the brothers greeted him! How festive the
ordination! It seemed to him that God was in the sunshine of the
church, and beamed within it, from the holy pictures and from the
shining cross. He stood in the evening sunset, in his little cell, and
opened his window and gazed in the spring-time over old Rome–with her
broken temples, her massive, but dead Colosseum; her blooming acacias,
her flourishing evergreens, her fragrant roses, her shining lemons
and oranges, her palm trees fanned by the breeze–and felt touched and
satisfied. The quiet, open Campagna extended to the blue snow-topped
mountains, which appeared to be painted on the air. Everything
breathed beauty and peace. The whole–a dream!

Yes, the world here was a dream, and the dream ruled the hours and
returned to hours again. But the life of a cloister is a life of many,
many long years.

Man is naturally impure and he felt this! What flames were these, that
at times glowed through him? Was it the power of the Evil One, that
caused these wild thoughts to rage constantly within him? He punished
his body, but without effect. What portion of his mind was that, which
wound itself around him, pliable as a serpent, and which crept about
his conscience under a loving cloak and consoled him! The saints pray
for us, the holy Virgin prays for us, Jesus himself gave his blood for
us!

Was it a childlike feeling, or the levity of youth, that had induced
him to give himself up to grace, and which made him feel elevated
above so many? For had he not cast away the vanity of the world, was
he not a son of the church?

One day, after many years, he met Angelo, who recognized him.

“Man,” said he, “yes, it is you! Are you happy now? You have sinned
against God, and cast his gifts of mercy away from you; you have
gambled away your vocation for this world. Read the parable of the
entrusted pledge. The Master who related it, spoke but truth! What
have you won and found after all? Do not make a dream life for
yourself! Make a religion for yourself, as all do. Suppose all is but
a dream, a fancy, a beautiful thought!”