e Gwendolen in 'Daniel Deronda.' I admired the
stained glass in the Lincoln Cathedral the other day, especially the
Nuremberg window. I thought Mr. Copley looked pained, but he said
nothing. When I went to my room, I consulted a book and found that all
the glass in that cathedral is very modern and very bad, and the
Nuremberg window is the worst of all. Aunt Celia says she hopes that it
will be a warning to me to read before I speak; but Mr. Copley says no,
that the world would lose more in one way than it would gain in the
other. I tried my quotations this morning, and stuck fast in the middle
of the first.

Mr. Copley thinks I have been feeing the vergers too liberally, so I
wrote a song about it called 'The Ballad of the Vergers and the Foolish
Virgin,' which I sang to my guitar. Mr. Copley thinks it is cleverer
than anything he ever did with his pencil. Of course, he says that only
to be agreeable; but really, whenever he talks to me in that way, I can
almost hear myself purring with pleasure.

We go to two services a day in the minster, and sometimes I sit quite
alone in the nave drinking in the music as it floats out from behind the
choir-screen. The Litany and the Commandments are so beautiful heard in
this way, and I never listen to the fresh, young voices chanting 'Write
all these Thy laws in our hearts, we beseech Thee,' without wanting
passionately to be good. I love, too, the joyful burst of music in the
_Te Deum_: 'Thou didst open the kingdom of heaven to all believers.' I
like that word 'all'; it takes in foolish me, as well as wise Aunt
Celia.

And yet, with all its pomp and magnificence, the service does not help
me quite so much nor stir up the deep places, in me so quickly as dear
old Dr. Kyle's simpler prayers and talks in the village meeting-house
where I went as a child. Mr. Copley has seen it often, and made a little
picture of it for me, with its white steeple and the elm-tree branches
hanging over it. If I ever have a husband I should wish him to have
memories like my own. It would be very romantic to marry an Italian
marquis or a Hungarian count, but must it not be a comfort to two people
to look back on the same past?

* * * * *

We all went to an evening service last night. It was an 'occasion,' and
a famous organist played the Minster organ.

I wonder why choir-boys are so often playful and fidgety and
uncanonical in behaviour? Does the choirmaster advert