ed to a counter at the end of the dark, low
shop, where the head shopwoman waited on her. Joyce's list of
commissions was for the most part of the homely and useful kind; but
Charlotte was attracted by a display of gauze ribbons, then greatly
in fashion, for the large loops worn on the crown of gipsy bonnets. She
was not proof against buying two yards of straw-coloured ribbon with a
blue edge, and when the ring was pulled down the ends of her purse
again, it slipped off, for there was nothing left in it.

[Illustration: The Market Place, Wells.]

"Look, Joyce, what lovely ribbon! Do get some, Joyce."

But Joyce was intently examining some homely towelling, and weighing the
respective merits of bird's-eye and huckaback.

"I don't want any ribbons," she said. "Yes, it is pretty, but what are
you going to do with it?" Then turning to the counter: "I want a box of
needles--all sizes, and half-a-dozen reels of cotton, and----"

"Joyce, I think I will go to the door while you are finishing all these
dull things; and then----"

Joyce glanced at the large clock over the counter:

"Then, I think, we will go to the service, and if we are not too
late----"

"Oh, yes," Charlotte said, eagerly. "Do let us go, and come back to the
china-shop afterwards."

Charlotte had her own reasons for desiring to go to the cathedral. The
hero of her silent worship was Mr. Bamfylde, a new minor Canon, and it
was his week for doing the duty.

Joyce completed her purchases, and left orders for them to be sent to
the Swan; and then, just as the last chime was ringing and the old clock
struck three, the two girls passed up the nave to the choir.

The work of restoration had not been begun, and the beautiful
proportions of the choir of Wells Cathedral, were disfigured by high
seats and an ugly pulpit. But Joyce's eyes were not critical, and she
gave herself up to the soothing and elevating influence of the place,
without any very distinct idea of why it was soothing and elevating. The
service was slovenly enough in those days, and the new minor Canon got
through it as fast as he could. The choristers straggled in, with no
regard to order, and the lay-vicars conversed freely with each other,
now and then giving the head of the chorister nearest to them a sharp
rap with the corner of an anthem-book, or their own knuckles, through
the open desk. The boys' behaviour was a little better than that of the
men, for they had a wholesome fear of bei