Silence for awhile, and the sense of oppression more heavy; but now once more come the swelling softened tones of the grand old instrument-- strains wild and extemporised--music that is almost palpable, as it flows current-like through nave, aisles, and chancel--sad music, solemn strains--and then once more silence. A strange thrill now, but only for an instant, of jarring pain; for the old clock chimes the hour, and each lapse of time is beaten out upon bell-rim by a ponderous hammer, and the lumbering old machinery is set to work by its weights, and hammers out a mutilated version of the Old Hundredth Psalm, before the clicking, grinding works stand still, and the brazen clangour dies away. Then comes the organ again, in a sweet strain from some flute-like stop, from where the faint light rises in a halo, like the herald of the rising of some great orb of sound. And now come, in a powerful crescendo, strains loud and deep, then higher and higher, till the glorious fugue culminates in a mighty burst of harmony, poured forth by the instrument's full power, but only to die away in distant mutterings as of thunder, from the deep-toned pedal pipes; for the practice is at an end. That was Jared Pellet's touch--that was the old organist, fettered by no ten-minute edicts of old tea-dealing Timson; that was Jared, rising on the wings of his music far away from earth; and now, as the last muttering peal of softened thunder dies away, the faint light is shining upon the bent grey head of my old friend. THE END.