One day Cuthbert reached the banks of the river Tyne. He tarried to watch a raft loaded with logs of wood. It was being steered to the monastery that stood on the other side of the river. Suddenly a violent storm arose and the wind drove the raft down the river toward the sea.

From the monastery windows the monk saw that their comrades were in danger and they hastened to the river, and launched their boat to go to the help of the raftsmen. But the current was strong, the storm fierce, and their efforts were all in vain.

Soon a crowd of country folk gathered on the bank. As they watched the raft, they jeered at the monks and bade them make haste lest their comrades were drowned.

"Why do you scoff when you see these men are in danger?" asked Cuthbert. "Would it not be well to pray to the Lord to save them, rather than to mock at their peril?"

But in churlish tones the crowd answered, "Let no one pray for them; may God have pity on none of them, for they have taken away our gods. We care not what may betide them."

Then Cuthbert fell on his knees before the heedless folk and prayed that the monks might not perish. As he prayed, lo! the wind began to blow toward the shore, and the raft was soon in safety on the other side.

The country folk were silent now, ashamed to look at the stranger. But Cuthbert bade them praise God for His goodness and serve Him whom the winds and the waves obey.

Winter had come and Cuthbert was journeying over frozen moorlands, while snow fell thick and fast around him. His horse soon grew weary and stumbled, so that the lad was forced to dismount and guide the animal through the heavy snowdrifts. He had begun to fear that he was lost when he saw a tiny gleam of light in the distance. He urged on his horse with kindly words until at length they stood before the door of a lonely farmhouse.

Cuthbert knocked, and an old woman opened the door and drew the stranger in from the storm. She wished to give him food and begged him to stay until the storm was over. But it was Friday and on that day Cuthbert fasted from morning until night in reverence for the Passion of His Lord. So he told the old woman that he would wait only until his horse was fed and rested, then he would try to reach the nearest hamlet.

The storm raged as fiercely as ever when Cuthbert and his horse set out once more. He could not see a step before him, for the wind had risen and was whirling the snowflakes in his face. Before long he knew that he must find shelter or both he and his horse would perish. Just as he felt he could go no farther he saw before him an old hut. The walls were crumbling, the thatched roof was rent in many places, yet it would be some protection from the storm.

Cuthbert tethered his weary beast to the crumbling wall and feed him with a handful of dry grass that had been blown off the roof. He himself was hungry after his long fast, but there was no food in the hut. Too glad of shelter to complain, Cuthbert knelt to thank God for His care. While his master prayed, the horse began to nibble at the thatched roof. As he did so he pulled out of the straw a bundle, wrapped in a linen cloth.

When Cuthbert rose from his knees he saw the bundle and unfolding the cloth he found what he needed most—bread and meat.

Once more he knelt to thank God for food as well as shelter, then, after sharing the bread and meat with his faithful beast, he lay down to sleep.

Months passed away while Cuthbert fought for the helpless and strove to free his country from her foes. Then when autumn came and touched the forests into splendour of scarlet and gold, Cuthbert journeyed back to Mailros. For quieter times had come and he hoped that Eata would receive him now.

It was evening as Cuthbert rode in at the gates of the monastery. The rays of the setting sun fell upon the lad, touching his fair hair with a golden gleam, lighting up his glad face until it shone with a beauty exceeding fair.

"Behold a Servant of the Lord," cried the Abbot Eata, as he welcomed the lad who was to be a soldier of Jesus Christ for evermore.

So in the happy harvest days, Cuthbert became a monk in the monastery of Mailros.

His dress was no longer the rough garment in which he had journeyed from place to place, but a long white robe. Over the white robe he wore a tunic and a large hood made of wool. On his feet were sandals, but these he took off when he sat down to meals.

There was work for all who dwelt in the Monastery of Mailros, for the monks swept and cooked and cared for the cattle. And ever as they worked their voices might be heard, singing glad songs of praise to God.

Among the monks none was more diligent than Cuthbert, but when the day's work was over, when the barley bread had been baked and the eggs cooked, he would steal away to his cell to read the Holy Scriptures, to speak to God in prayer.

Sometimes he was sent from the monastery to journey among the scattered hill folk, who knew naught of the gospel of Jesus Christ. As in other days Cuthbert rode, his spear in his hand, lest robbers should be lurking in dark ravines or desolate marsh lands.

The hill folk welcomed the stranger and listened to the tidings he brought with wonder written upon their faces, so strange to them seemed the story of the Cross. When they found that the boy priest understood their sorrows and ofttimes healed their sicknesses, they besought him to stay with them. But Cuthbert had other work t6 do and leaving the mountains he journeyed along the sea coast, where the wild tribes of the Picts had their home. Or he hired a boat and rowed along the rocky shores, heedless of wind and wave, until he reached a Pictish village, when he would tarry to tell again the story of the Cross.

As he laboured the years slipped away, until a day came, when Eata left Mailros to go to the monastery of Ripon, taking with him Cuthbert who was dear to him as a son.

At Ripon, Cuthbert was guest master. It was he who with willing hands drew strangers into the shelter of the monastery. It was he who washed the pilgrim's feet and chafed them with his hands until they grew warm beneath his touch.

Once, through bitter frost and snow, an angel came to the monastery in the guise of a pilgrim.

Cuthbert welcomed him with kindness and, as, was his custom, he bathed the stranger's feet. With winning words he led him to the chapel, and together they knelt in prayer.

Then he placed a small table with food before the pilgrim and besought him to eat, while he went in search of new bread. "For," said he, "I expect it to be ready baked by this time."

When Cuthbert came back with the loaves the pilgrim was no longer there. The guest master hastened to the door, but on the newly fallen snow no footfall was to be seen.

What could it mean, Cuthbert wondered, as he drew the table to an inner room. A strange fragrance filled the little chamber, a fragrance as of flowers delicate and rare, yet no flowers were there. But on a shelf before him lay three loaves, warm and of wondrous purity.

In a hushed voice Cuthbert whispered to himself, "It was an angel of God whom I received, who has come to feed others not to be fed. Lo! he has brought such loaves as this earth cannot produce. For they surpass lilies in whiteness, roses in fragrance, and honey in flavour."

Soon after this Eata and Cuthbert went back to Mailros, where they were sorely needed. For a terrible plague was spreading over the countryside and along the wild Northumbrian coast, and in every village men and women, as they lay dying, called for the holy Abbot Eata and Cuthbert, whom they named the gentle saint.

From village to village the holy men hastened, carrying healing and cheer to the terror-stricken folk. But before the plague was over Cuthbert, worn out by his labours, was seized by the dread disease.

As he lay tossing from side to side in his little cell, the monks besought God to spare the life of their dear comrade. Through the long nights they prayed, for they could not sleep while Cuthbert was in danger.

One morning the sick man heard how the monks had spent the night. He called for his staff and sandals, and to their astonishment struggled to his feet crying, "Then why am I lying here. It is not possible that God should refuse your petition."

But while St. Cuthbert grew well, the Prior of Mailros, who also had been smitten by the plague, grew worse, and after seven days he breathed his last. Then Cuthbert was made Prior of the monastery in his stead.

Although the new Prior loved Mailros, he would often leave it to journey as of old among the hill folk. As he listened to the story of their cruel deeds he shed tears, while he took upon himself the penance of their evil ways. Then they grew ashamed to sin and grieve the holy man.

One evening Cuthbert reached a lonely monastery in Berwickshire. When the monks had gone to their cells for the night, Cuthbert stole down to the seashore. But one monk had watched him as he left the monastery and followed to see what the holy man would do.

To his dismay he saw Cuthbert step into the cold waters and walk out farther and farther yet, until the salt sea reached to his arms and neck. There he stood until the break of day, singing praises to God. Then he came back to the shore, and, kneeling on the rocky beach, he prayed.

And the brother who was watching saw two otters creep out of the rocks and steal up to the frozen saint. They licked his poor benumbed feet and wiped them with their hair, until they grew warm again. Then Cuthbert blessed them and sent them away, while he walked back to the monastery.

The next day the monk who had followed the Saint confessed what he had done and begged to be forgiven.

"If you will promise never to relate what you have seen during my lifetime, I will pardon you," said Cuthbert.

When the brother had promised never to speak of what he had seen, the monk blessed him and sent him away in peace.