‘Wilfrid--Saint of Sussex, and Archbishop of York. I shall wait till he asks me.’ He waved them forward. Their feet squeaked on the old grave-slabs in the centre aisle. The Archbishop raised one hand with a pink ring on it, and said something in Latin. He was very handsome, and his thin face looked almost as silvery as his thin circle of hair. ‘Are you alone?’ he asked. ‘Puck’s here, of course,’ said Una. ‘Do you know him?’ ‘I know him better now than I used to.’ He beckoned over Dan’s shoulder, and spoke again in Latin. Puck pattered forward, holding himself as straight as an arrow. The Archbishop smiled. ‘Be welcome,’ said he. ‘Be very welcome.’ ‘Welcome to you also, O Prince of the church,’ Puck replied. The Archbishop bowed his head and passed on, till he glimmered like a white moth in the shadow by the font. ‘He does look awfully princely,’ said Una. ‘Isn’t he coming back?’ ‘Oh yes. He’s only looking over the church. He’s very fond of churches,’ said Puck. ‘What’s that?’ The Lady who practices the organ was speaking to the blower-boy behind the organ-screen. ‘We can’t very well talk here,’ Puck whispered. ‘Let’s go to Panama Corner.’ He led them to the end of the south aisle, where there is a slab of iron which says in queer, long-tailed letters: ORATE P. ANNEMA JHONE COLINE. The children always called it Panama Corner. The Archbishop moved slowly about the little church, peering at the old memorial tablets and the new glass windows. The Lady who practises the organ began to pull out stops and rustle hymn-books behind the screen. ‘I hope she’ll do all the soft lacey tunes--like treacle on porridge,’ said Una. ‘I like the trumpety ones best,’ said Dan. ‘Oh, look at Wilfrid! He’s trying to shut the Altar-gates!’ ‘Tell him he mustn’t,’ said Puck, quite seriously. He can’t, anyhow,’ Dan muttered, and tiptoed out of Panama Corner while the Archbishop patted and patted at the carved gates that always sprang open again beneath his hand. ‘That’s no use, sir,’ Dan whispered. ‘Old Mr Kidbrooke says Altar-gates are just the one pair of gates which no man can shut. He made ‘em so himself.’ The Archbishop’s blue eyes twinkled. Dan saw that he knew all about it. ‘I beg your pardon,’ Dan stammered--very angry with Puck. ‘Yes, I know! He made them so Himself.’ The Archbishop smiled, and crossed to Panama Corner, where Una dragged up a certain padded arm-chair for him to sit on. The organ played softly. ‘What does that music say?’ he asked. Una dropped into the chant without thinking: ‘“O all ye works of the Lord, bless ye the Lord; praise him and magnify him for ever.” We call it the Noah’s Ark, because it’s all lists of things--beasts and birds and whales, you know.’ ‘Whales?’ said the Archbishop quickly. ‘Yes--“O ye whales, and all that move in the waters,”’ Una hummed--‘“Bless ye the Lord.” It sounds like a wave turning over, doesn’t it?’