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 don’t know what mischief you may do.’ ‘Mischief? it’s not a work of any particular merit, Canon.’ ‘Don’t call me Canon,’ said the old man with great asperity, ‘that is, for thirty years I’ve been known as Dr. Ayloff, and I shall be obliged, Mr. Dean, if you would kindly humour me in that matter. And as to the pulpit (which I’ve preached from for thirty years, though I don’t insist on that) all I’ll say is, I know you’re doing wrong in moving it.’ ‘But what sense could there be, my dear Doctor, in leaving it where it is, when we’re fitting up the rest of the choir in a totally different style? What reason could be given—apart from the look of the thing?’ ‘Reason! reason!’ said old Dr. Ayloff; ‘if you young men—if I may say so without any disrespect, Mr. Dean—if you’d only listen to reason a little, and not be always asking for it, we should get on better. But there, I’ve said my say.’ The old gentleman hobbled off, and as it proved, never entered the Cathedral again. The season—it was a hot summer—turned sickly on a sudden. Dr. Ayloff was one of the first to go, with some affection of the muscles of the thorax, which took him painfully at night. And at many services the number of choirmen and boys was very thin.