Mr. Datchery receives the communication with a well-satisfied though pondering face, and breaks up the conference.  Returning to his quaint lodging, and sitting long over the supper of bread-and-cheese and salad and ale which Mrs. Tope has left prepared for him, he still sits when his supper is finished.  At length he rises, throws open the door of a corner cupboard, and refers to a few uncouth chalked strokes on its inner side.

‘I like,’ says Mr. Datchery, ’the old tavern way of keeping scores.  Illegible except to the scorer.  The scorer not committed, the scored debited with what is against him.  Hum; ha!  A very small score this; a very poor score!’

He sighs over the contemplation of its poverty, takes a bit of chalk from one of the cupboard shelves, and pauses with it in his hand, uncertain what addition to make to the account.

‘I think a moderate stroke,’ he concludes, ’is all I am justified in scoring up;’ so, suits the action to the word, closes the cupboard, and goes to bed.

A brilliant morning shines on the old city.  Its antiquities and ruins are surpassingly beautiful, with a lusty ivy gleaming in the sun, and the rich trees waving in the balmy air.  Changes of glorious light from moving boughs, songs of birds, scents from gardens, woods, and fields—­or, rather, from the one great garden of the whole cultivated island in its yielding time—­penetrate into the Cathedral, subdue its earthy odour, and preach the Resurrection and the Life.  The cold stone tombs of centuries ago grow warm; and flecks of brightness dart into the sternest marble corners of the building, fluttering there like wings.

Comes Mr. Tope with his large keys, and yawningly unlocks and sets open.  Come Mrs. Tope and attendant sweeping sprites.  Come, in due time, organist and bellows-boy, peeping down from the red curtains in the loft, fearlessly flapping dust from books up at that remote elevation, and whisking it from stops and pedals.  Come sundry rooks, from various quarters of the sky, back to the great tower; who may be presumed to enjoy vibration, and to know that bell and organ are going to give it them.  Come a very small and straggling congregation indeed:  chiefly from Minor Canon Corner and the Precincts.  Come Mr. Crisparkle, fresh and bright; and his ministering brethren, not quite so fresh and bright.  Come the Choir in a hurry (always in a hurry, and struggling into their nightgowns at the last moment, like children shirking bed), and comes John Jasper leading their line.  Last of all comes Mr. Datchery into a stall, one of a choice empty collection very much at his service, and glancing about him for Her Royal Highness the Princess Puffer.

The service is pretty well advanced before Mr. Datchery can discern Her Royal Highness.  But by that time he has made her out, in the shade.  She is behind a pillar, carefully withdrawn from the Choir-master’s view, but regards him with the closest attention.  All unconscious of her presence, he chants and sings.  She grins when he is most musically fervid, and—­yes, Mr. Datchery sees her do it!—­shakes her fist at him behind the pillar’s friendly shelter.