We go to two services a day in the minster, and sometimes I sit quite alone in the nave drinking in the music as it floats out from behind the choir-screen. The Litany and the Commandments are so beautiful heard in this way, and I never listen to the fresh, young voices chanting 'Write all these Thy laws in our hearts, we beseech Thee,' without wanting passionately to be good. I love, too, the joyful burst of music in the _Te Deum_: 'Thou didst open the kingdom of heaven to all believers.' I like that word 'all'; it takes in foolish me, as well as wise Aunt Celia. And yet, with all its pomp and magnificence, the service does not help me quite so much nor stir up the deep places, in me so quickly as dear old Dr. Kyle's simpler prayers and talks in the village meeting-house where I went as a child. Mr. Copley has seen it often, and made a little picture of it for me, with its white steeple and the elm-tree branches hanging over it. If I ever have a husband I should wish him to have memories like my own. It would be very romantic to marry an Italian marquis or a Hungarian count, but must it not be a comfort to two people to look back on the same past? * * * * * We all went to an evening service last night. It was an 'occasion,' and a famous organist played the Minster organ. I wonder why choir-boys are so often playful and fidgety and uncanonical in behaviour? Does the choirmaster advertise 'Naughty boys preferred,' or do musical voices commonly exist in unregenerate bodies? With all the opportunities they must have outside of the cathedral to exchange those objects of beauty and utility usually found in boys' pockets, there is seldom a service where they do not barter penknives, old coins, or tops, generally during the Old Testament reading. A dozen little black-surpliced 'probationers' sit together in a seat just beneath the choir-boys, and one of them spent his time this evening in trying to pull a loose tooth from its socket. The task not only engaged all his own powers, but made him the centre of attraction for the whole probationary row. Coming home, Aunt Celia walked ahead with Mrs. Benedict, who keeps turning up at the most unexpected moments. She's going to build a Gothicky memorial chapel somewhere, and is making studies for it. I don't like her in the least, but four is certainly a more comfortable number than three. I scarcely ever have a moment alone with Mr. Copley, for, go where I will and do what I please, as Aunt Celia has the most perfect confidence in my indiscretion, she is always _en evidence_. Just as we were turning into the quiet little street where we are lodging, I said: 'Oh dear, I wish that I really knew something about architecture!' 'If you don't know anything about it, you are certainly responsible for a good deal of it,' said Mr. Copley.