The trumpets began. They rang out the Psalm that had been given them, and transformed it into a cry of exultant triumph. Their notes rose, were caught by the pillars, acclaimed, tossed higher, caught again in the eaves and corners of the great building, swinging backwards and forwards.... "Now listen to My greatness! You created Me for the Worship of your God! "And now I am your God! Out of your forms and ceremonies you have made a new God! And I, thy God, am a jealous God...." Ronder read the First Lesson. "That's Ronder," the town-people whispered, "the new Canon. Oh! he's clever. You should hear him preach!" "Reads _beautiful!_" Gladys, the Brandons' maid, whispered to Annie, the kitchen-maid. "I do like a bit of fine reading." By those accustomed to observe it was noticed that Ronder read with very much more assurance than he had done three months ago. It was as though he knew now where he was, as though he were settled down now and had his place--and it would take some very strong people to shift him from that place. Oh, yes. It would! And Brandon read the Second Lesson. As usual, when he stepped down from the choir, slowly, impressively, pausing for a moment before he turned to the Lectern, strangers whispered to one another, "That's a handsome parson, that is." He seemed to hesitate again before going up as though he had stumbled over a step. Very slowly he read the opening words; slowly he continued. Puddifoot, looking up across from his seat in the side aisle, thought, "There's something the matter with him." Suddenly he paused, looked about him, stared over the congregation as though he were searching for somebody, then slowly again went on and finished: "Here endeth--the Second Lesson." Then, instead of turning, he leaned forward, gripping the Lectern with both hands, and seemed again to be searching for some one. "Looks as though he were going to have a stroke," thought Puddifoot. Then very carefully, as though he were moving in darkness, he turned and groped his way downwards. With bent head he walked back into the choir. Soon they were scattered--every one according to his or her own individuality--the prayers had broken them up, too many of them, too long, and the wooden kneelers so hard. Minds flew like birds about the Cathedral--ideas, gold and silver, black and grey, soapy and soft, hard as iron. The men yawned behind their trumpets, the School played Noughts and Crosses--the Old Lady and her Triumph stepped away into limbo.