Had anyone roused Father Jucundus and asked him what he was doing, the answer would have been that he was praying. If was after the evening meal, his first community exercise since his return from a tour of spectacular preaching, that too travel-weary to stay more than a few minutes in the oratory, he had sought his cell for final prayer and then repose. His gift of lively imagination, he thought, would help his prayer. So with no curb to his fancifulness, he roamed through the courts of Heaven meeting an occasional saint although the night was well advanced. He took care to comport himself properly in the presence of one, and said all the right things to another. There really was something of the actor in his gate-crashing mode of entry into the celestial realms.

Then quite suddenly he seemed to leave Heaven behind. The atmosphere became oppressive, and he, hot and sickly. He did not like the change at all, and was on the point of taking a good look around, when his attention was held by a curious figure that plumped himself down in front of him, apparently from nowhere.

What he saw was a very old man with all the signs of youthful vitality. The head was remarkably large, the sort of head so often rightly judged to be the envelope for more than normal intelligence.

There was an expression of amused enjoyment or. the cunning old face that went with the wise old head.

In somewhat unprofessional language Fr. Jucundus asked ‘Who the devil are you?’ And the answer came, ‘I am your own familiar little devil.’