If the Saturday evenings were pleasant, how delightful was the Sunday, when, in the sunshine of the early February day, the party from the palace crossed to the cloister door, and went to the morning service in the cathedral. It has been said of Wells that it is always Sunday there; no sounds but the ringing of bells for service; no business, and no traffic in the streets. But certain it is, that nowhere is the real Sabbath stillness more profound, nor more refreshing to the tired in spirit, on a day like that February day, when Joyce was seated in the high pew belonging to the Bishop. The cathedral is always a vision of beauty, and when the swelling of the organ and the voices of the choristers are hushed, and a pause occurs after the benediction has been pronounced, the sounds without the building seem in direct harmony with those within; for the Lady Chapel abuts on the lawn of the Sub-Dean's residence, where the waters of St. Joseph's Well lie deep; and there is the murmur of the streams, the chirp of birds, the soft coo of pigeons, and the distinct chatter of the jackdaw from the West front. Joyce went out of the cathedral filled with peaceful thoughts of the temple, of which this was but the faint shadow, the temple which has no need of the sun to lighten it, for the Lamb is the light thereof. Quite forgetting that she ought to turn towards the cloisters, Joyce walked on down the nave before the Bishop's party had missed her. The sweet seriousness of her face as she went out into the sunshine almost held back the welcome, which was trembling on the lips of someone who was standing near the porch, and had watched her coming down the wide nave. She was passing out, wrapt in her own meditations when Gilbert Arundel put out his hand: "Joyce!" She started, and blushed rosy red. "You did forget me, then!" he exclaimed, reproachfully. "Forget you, no." "You did not reply to my letter?" "You did not ask me to write." They now found themselves by the turnstile under the old clock, that quaint clock which, it is said, was made to strike many times in succession for the amusement of that gracious and sagacious King James, who laughed till his sides ached, as the old knights, in their black armour, hit the bell with their battle-axes, beneath the suggestive motto, "Ne quid pereat." They hit it now with, all their wonted vigour four times, and then the clock struck _one_. [Illustration: Clock at Wells] "We have come the wrong way. I am staying at the palace till to-morrow," Joyce said. "At the palace! I am glad to hear it; but your mother, whom I saw yesterday, did not know it." "No; it was a sudden thought. I mean Mrs. Law only asked me on Friday." "I am glad you are at the palace," Gilbert said. "I know I shall have a friend in the Bishop." Joyce made no remark to this, and they retraced their steps in silence till they had crossed the drawbridge and were in the palace grounds.