He left the house, humming a little tune. On the second step he paused, as he was in the habit of doing, and surveyed the Precincts--the houses with their shining knockers, their old-fashioned bow-windows and overhanging portals, the Cathedral Green, and the towering front of the Cathedral itself. He was, for a moment, a kind of presiding deity over all this. He loved it and believed in it and trusted it exactly as though it had been the work of his own hands. Halfway towards the Arden Gate he overtook poor old shambling Canon Morphew, who really ought, in the Archdeacon's opinion, to have died long ago. However, as he hadn't died the Archdeacon felt kindly towards him, and he had, when he talked to the old man, a sense of beneficence and charity very warming to the heart. "Well, Morphew, enjoying the sun?" Canon Morphew always started when any one spoke to him, being sunk all day deep in dreams of his own, dreams that had their birth somewhere in the heart of the misty dirty rooms where his books were piled ceiling-high and papers blew about the floor. "Good afternoon...good afternoon, Archdeacon. Pray forgive me. You came upon me unawares." Brandon moderated his manly stride to the other's shuffling steps. "Hope you've had none of that tiresome rheumatism troubling you again." "Rheumatism? Just a twinge--just a twinge.... It belongs to my time of life." "Oh, don't say that!" The Archdeacon laughed his hearty laugh. "You've many years in front of you yet." "No, I haven't--and you don't mean it, Archdeacon--you know you don't. A few months perhaps--that's all. The Lord's will be done. But there's a piece of work...a piece of work...." He ran off into incoherent mumblings. Suddenly, just as they reached the dark shadows of the Arden Gate, he seemed to wake up. His voice was quite vigorous, his eyes, tired and worn as they were, bravely scanned Brandon's health and vigour. "We all come to it, you know. Yes, we do. The very strongest of us. You're a young man, Archdeacon, by my years, and I hope you may long live to continue your good work in this place. All the same, you'll be old yourself one day. No one escapes.... No one escapes...." "Well, good-day to you," said the Archdeacon hurriedly. "Good-day to you.... Hope this bright weather continues," and started rather precipitately down the hill, leaving Morphew to find his way by himself.