do very well to start with. He was very kind and fatherly in his manner,
and when I rose to go, he put his arm through mine and said: "Come, it will
be strange if we can't hit it off together. I like your presence and talk,
and am glad to think you are in the house. Don't be anxious! The difficulty
with you is that you will foresee all your troubles beforehand, and try to
bolt them in a lump, instead of swallowing them one by one as they come.
Live for the day!" There was something magnetic about him, for by these few
words he established a little special relation with me which was never
broken.

When he dismissed me, I went and changed my things, and then came down. I
found that it was the custom for the men to go down to the hall about
eight. Father Payne said that it was a great mistake to work to the last
minute, and then to rush in to dinner. He said it made people nervous and
dyspeptic. He generally strolled in himself a few minutes before, and sate
silent by the fire.

Just as it struck eight, and the hum of the clock in the hall died away, a
little tune in harmony, like a gavotte, was played by softly-tingling tiny
bells. I could not tell where the music came from; it seemed to me like the
Ariel music in _The Tempest_, between earth and heaven, or the
"chiming shower of rare device" in _The Beryl Stone_.

Father Payne smiled at the little gesture I involuntarily made. "You're
right!" he said, when it was over. "How _can_ people talk through
that? It's the clock in the gallery that does it--they say it belonged to
George III. I hope, if so, that it gave him a few happier moments! It is an
ingenious little thing, with silver bells and hammers; I'll show it you
some day. It rings every four hours."