The old lady made a halt, and Furlong filled up the pause by declaring, "He weally couldn't say." "I hope you admire the service at St. Patrick's?" continued the old lady. "Ye-s, I think St. Paytwick's a vewy amusing place of wo'ship." "Amusing," said the old lady, half offended. "Inspiring, you mean; not that I think the sermon interesting, but the anthem!--oh, the anthem, it is so fine!--and the old banners, those are my delight--the dear banners covered with dust!" "Oh, as far as that goes," said Furlong, "they have impwoved the cathedwal vewy much, fo' they white-washed it inside, and put up _noo_ banners." "Whitewash and new banners!" exclaimed the indignant dowager; "the Goths! to remove an atom of the romantic dust! I would not have let a house-maid into the place for the world! But they have left the anthem, I hope?" "Oh, yes; the anthem is continued, but with a small diffewence:--they used to sing the anthem befo' the se'mon, but the people used to go away afte' the anthem and neve' waited fo' the se'mon, and the bishop, who is pwoud of his pweaching, orde'ed the anthem to be postponed till afte' the se'mon." "Oh, yes," said the old lady, "I remember, now, hearing of that, and some of the wags in Dublin saying the bishop was jealous of old Spray;[16] and didn't somebody write something called 'Pulpit versus Organloft'?" [16] One of the finest tenors of the last century. "I cawn't say." "Well, I am glad you like the cathedral, sir; but I wish they had not dusted the banners; I used to look at them all the time the service went on--they were so romantic! I suppose you go there every Sunday?" "I go in the summe'," said Furlong; "the place is _so_ cold in the winte'." "That's true indeed," responded the Dowager, "and it's quite funny, when your teeth are chattering with cold, to hear Spray singing, 'Comfort ye, my people;' but, to be sure, _that_ is almost enough to warm you. You are fond of music, I perceive?" "Vewy!" "_I_ play the guitar--(citra--cithra--or lute, as it is called by poets). I sometimes sing, too. Do you know 'The lass with the delicate air'? a sweet ballad of the old school--my instrument once belonged to Dolly Bland, the celebrated Mrs. Jordan now--ah, there, sir, is a brilliant specimen of Irish mirthfulness--what a creature she is! Hand me my lute, child," she said to her granddaughter; and having adjusted the blue ribbon over her shoulder, and twisted the tuning-pegs, and thrummed upon the wires for some time, she made a prelude and cleared her throat to sing "The lass with the delicate air," when the loud whirring of the clock-wheels interrupted her, and she looked up with great delight at a little door in the top of the clock, which suddenly sprang open, and out popped a wooden bird. "Listen to my bird, sir," said the old lady. The sound of "cuckoo" was repeated twelve times, the bird popped in again, the little door closed, and the monotonous tick of the clock continued.