In his wanderings Cuthbert often visited the village where his old nurse lived. And when he came she called her neighbours together that they might listen to the glad story he had to tell. Nor were they slow to come, for they had heard of the wonders that had befallen him when he was a child tending sheep on the grassy slopes of Lammermoor.

Once as he talked to these simple folk a cry of fire arose. The wind was blowing fiercely in the direction of the village and the home of his old nurse would soon be in flames. The people were panic-stricken and ran hither and thither doing nothing.

"Fear not, dear mother," said the Saint to his old nurse. This fire will do you no harm." Then amid the tumult he fell upon his face on the ground and prayed. And as he prayed the wind sank to rest, so that the flames were easily quenched.

A few years later Eata, who was now Abbot of Lindisfarne, sent for Cuthbert, that he might make him prior of his monastery.

Lindisfarne is a flat and desolate island off the coast of Northumberland. When the tide ebbed the blasts of the north wind blew bitter across a dreary waste of sand. At low water Lindisfarne was no longer an island, for the folk could cross from the mainland to the monastery over a pathway of firm sand.

Here Cuthbert had need of all his courage, for the monks were both greedy and lazy. When the new Prior made strict rules and himself saw that they were obeyed, there was wrangling and strife within the old monastery walls.

But St. Cuthbert bore the rough words and ugly scowls of the monks with utter patience, and at length before his gentle ways their rough words grew soft, their harsh looks tender. They learned to love and to reverence their Prior.

While he dwelt at Lindisfarne, St. Cuthbert's fame spread far and wide. Kings and nobles, slaves and peasants came to the lone island to seek counsel or comfort from the saint.

Swiftly the years of service at Lindisfarne passed, until, when St. Cuthbert was forty years of age, he determined to do as he had often wished to do. He would go to live as a hermit on the little island of Farne, that there he might the better serve God.

Farne was a desolate, demon-haunted island, where no water-springs were to be found, where neither fruit nor flowers were to be seen. Here, where others feared to dwell, Cuthbert built for himself a hut. The walls he made of stones and turf. One man could not lift the stones, for they were large and heavy, but the sea-folk told that angels came to the island and carried the stones for the saint and placed them on the wall. When he had thatched the roof, Cuthbert divided the hut into two small rooms. One was a cell, the other was for prayer—an oratory Cuthbert named it.

But there was no water on the island, and without water the Saint could not live. So he bored deep in a rock until he reached a spring. With a spade he dug the hard soil and planted a tiny plot of ground with barley. So scanty was the crop it yielded that the fisher-folk as they sailed past the island would point to it and say, "The Saint must be fed by angels or he would starve."

Close to the beach he built a large house, where the monks and pilgrims who visited the island might rest. Here, as though by a miracle, a fountain of water was found.

At first Cuthbert would leave his hut when he saw the boat from Lindisfarne rowing toward his little island, and go down to the shore to meet it. But soon he grew more strict and never left his cell. Only when the monks still came and looked in through the window of his hut, he would open it and talk to them while the hours passed swiftly away.

Even this he ceased to do at last, opening his window only to give his blessing to some stray pilgrim soul, leaving his cell only to do some act of charity.

The Saint was so quiet, so kind, that the wild beasts loved him, and even the seals came out of the sea to fawn upon his feet, until he, looking down, gave them his blessing. Then they floundered back content to their watery home.

But the birds were hungry and they flocked to St. Cuthbert's little barley, plot thinking to steal the grain. Then the Saint reproved them, saying, "Why do you touch the grain which you have not sown? Do you think that you have more need of it than?" If nevertheless you have obtained leave from God to do this, do what He allows you, but if not, depart and do no injury to the goods of another."

The little birds listened in silence, then flew away twittering, and ever after the harvest of the Saint ripened untouched.

As for the crows, they were bold birds and croaked one to the other that the hermit had come to spoil their home. So they flew to his hut, settled on the thatched roof and began to peck at the straw. Their nests would be built easily this year, they said, as they prepared to fly off with their stores of straw.

But St. Cuthbert had been watching the foolish crows and now he bade them put back the thatch before they flew away. Then in the name of Jesus Christ he told them that they might no longer build their nests on the island.

The crows spread their wings and soon left Farne far behind, but in three days they came back. With hanging heads and drooping wings they surrounded the Saint, uttering timid cries, as though for forgiveness.

When St. Cuthbert saw that they were sorry for their fault he bade them be of good cheer and allowed them to build their nests on the island as they had been used to do.

The wild sea-birds were his friends and grew tame beneath his touch. Through long night watches they clustered around the Saint as he knelt on the rocks in prayer. And still the sea-birds on the lonely island are called, "The birds of St. Cuthbert."

Cuthbert had gone to Farne that he might live alone with God. But his fame spread throughout England and Scotland, and many who were sick and sad journeyed to visit him. For very holy was the hermit, they had heard, very wonderful were the cures he wrought.

St. Cuthbert could not stay in his cell when he saw so many ailing folk on the island. He went down to the shore to welcome them, to lay his healing hands upon them and "no one returned home with the same sorrow of mind that he had brought."

Eight years had passed away, eight blessed years St. Cuthbert called them, when a great procession reached Farne. Noblemen and monks, led by their "devout and God-loved King Egfrid," had come to beseech Cuthbert to become Bishop of Lindisfarne.

The Saint shrank from the honour. He would fain have stayed on his lonely island. But when the king knelt at his feet and with tears begged him to yield he could not refuse.

It was winter when Egfrid came to Farne. In spring of the following year, on a glad Easter morn, St. Cuthbert was in the city of York. There, in the presence of King Egfrid, seven bishops and many priests, he was consecrated. From henceforth he was known as the Bishop of Lindisfarne.

Although he was now a bishop, Cuthbert lived simply as of old. He laboured and prayed in the monastery; he journeyed over the mountains and moorlands, from the Tyne to the Firth of Forth.

Once "as this holy shepherd of Christ's flock was going round visiting his fold, he came to a mountainous and wild place, where many people had got together. But among the mountains no church or fit place could be found to receive the Bishop and his attendants. They therefore pitched tents for him on the road and each cut branches from the trees in the neighbouring wood, to make for himself the best sort of covering that he was able." For two days Cuthbert tarried there to tell the people the glad gospel of Jesus Christ.

When he set out on his journey again, the crowds followed him. Little cared they for hunger, or for thirst, so only they might be near the man of God.

For two years St. Cuthbert laboured as Bishop of Lindisfarne, then feeling that his strength was failing and that death was not far off, he gave up his bishopric. On Christmas day, in 686 A.D., he went back to the little island of Farne.

The monks of Lindisfarne often sailed across to the island to see their beloved master, to listen to his words. Each time they went back more sorrowful, for they saw how weak St. Cuthbert had grown. Once a storm kept the monks at Lindisfarne for five days, but as soon as a boat could be manned the Abbot sailed to Farne to find that St. Cuthbert had been too ill to move.

"How have you lived with no one to give you food," asked the Abbot.

The Saint lifted a corner of the mat on which he lay and pointed to five onions.

"This," he said, "has been my food for five days, for when I was parched with thirst I cooled and refreshed myself by tasting these."

When the Abbot sailed again for Lindisfarne he left two monks to wait upon St. Cuthbert. As he grew weaker the Saint begged the monks to sing the midnight psalm. Ere it was ended angels carried his soul to Paradise. Almost his last words were, "Have peace and divine charity ever amongst you."

The monks finished the psalm, and then, hastening to the shore, they lit two torches that those at Lindisfarne might know that they would see St. Cuthbert no more on earth. For this was the signal for which the Abbot had bidden the monks to watch.

As the light of torches shone through the darkness the monks at Lindisfarne wept. Then in hushed voices they sang, "Eternal rest give to him, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon him."

Thus died the holy St. Cuthbert, Bishop of Lindisfarne, when he was about fifty years of age.

But the fisher-folk, who sail along the wild Northumbrian coast, say that at night a figure is often to be seen sitting on the rocks close to the sea. They say it is St. Cuthbert who sits there, a heap of little grey stones by his side. In his hand is an anvil with which he shapes the stones into beads, which are called, "The beads of St. Cuthbert."