, as Mr Sharnall was playing a voluntary after the Sunday
morning-service, a chorister stole up the little winding steps, and
appeared in the organ-loft just as his master had pulled out a handful
of stops and dashed into the _stretto_. The organist had not heard the
boy on the stairs, and gave a violent start as he suddenly caught sight
of the white surplice. Hands and feet for an instant lost their place,
and the music came perilously near breaking down. It was only for an
instant; he pulled himself together, and played the fugue to its logical
conclusion.

Then the boy began, "Canon Parkyn's compliments," but broke off; for the
organist greeted him with a sound cuff and a "How many times have I told
you, sir, not to come creeping up those stairs when I am in the middle
of a voluntary? You startle me out of my senses, coming round the
corner like a ghost."

"I'm very sorry, sir," the boy said, whimpering. "I'm sure I never
meant--I never thought--"

"You never _do_ think," Mr Sharnall said. "Well, well, don't go on
whining. Old heads don't grow on young shoulders; don't do it again,
and there's a sixpence for you. And now let's hear what you have to
say."

Sixpences were rare things among Cullerne boys, and the gift consoled
more speedily than any balm in Gilead.

"Canon Parkyn's compliments to you, sir, and he would be glad to have a
word with you in the clergy-vestry."

"All in good time. Tell him I'll be down as soon as I've put my books
away."

Mr Sharnall did not hurry. There were the Psalter and the chant-book
to be put open on the desk for the afternoon; there were the
morning-service and anthem-book to be put away, and the evening-service
and anthem-book to be got out.

The establishment had once been able to afford good music-books, and in
the attenuated list of subscribers to the first-edition Boyce you may
see to this day, "The Rector and Foundation of Cullerne Minster (6
copies)." Mr Sharnall loved the great Boyce, with its parchment paper
and largest of large margins. He loved the crisp sound of the leaves as
he turned them, and he loved the old-world clefs that he could read nine
staves at a time as easily as a short score. He looked at the weekly
list to check his memory--"Awake up my Glory" (_Wise_). No, it was in

Volume Three instead of Two; he had taken down the wrong volume--a
stupid mistake for one who knew the copy so well. How the rough calf
backs were crumbling away