THE clangour of bells grew insistent.In uncontrollable hilarity pealed S.Mary, contrasting clearly with thesubdued carillon of S. Mark. From all sides,seldom in unison, resounded bells. S. Elizabethand S. Sebastian, in Flower Street,seemed in loud dispute, while S. Ann “on theHill,” all hollow, cracked, consumptive, fretful,did nothing but complain. Near by S.Nicaise, half-paralysed, and impotent, feeblyshook. Then, triumphant, in a hurricane ofsound, S. Irene hushed them all.

It was Sunday again.

Up and up, and still up, the winding ways ofthe city the straggling townsfolk toiled.

Now and again a pilgrim perhaps wouldpause in the narrow lane behind the Deaneryto rest.

Opening a black lacquer fan and setting thewindow of her bedroom wide, Miss SarahSinquier peered out.

10The lane, very frequently, would proveinteresting of an afternoon.

Across it, the Cathedral rose up before herwith wizardry against the evening sky.

Miss Sinquier raised her eyes towards thetwin grey spires, threw up her arms, andyawned.

From a pinnacle a devil with limbs entwinedabout some struggling crowned

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