other portions of the service, when the dean did not do so himself. The
anthem he had put up for this occasion was a very good one, taken from
the Psalms of David. It commenced with a treble solo; it was, moreover,
an especial favourite of Mr. Pye's; and he complacently disposed
himself to listen.

But no sooner was the symphony over, no sooner had the first notes of
the chorister sounded on Mr. Pye's ear, than his face slightly flushed,
and he lifted his head with a sharp, quick gesture. _That_ was not the
voice which ought to have sung this fine anthem; that was a cracked,
_passee_ voice, belonging to the senior chorister, a young gentleman of
seventeen, who was going out of the choir at Michaelmas. He had done
good service for the choir in his day, but his voice was breaking now;
and the last time he had attempted a solo, the bishop (who interfered
most rarely with the executive of the cathedral; and, indeed, it was
not his province to do so) had spoken himself to Mr. Pye on the
conclusion of the service, and said the boy ought not to be allowed to
sing alone again.

Mr. Pye bent his head forward to catch a glimpse of the choristers,
five of whom sat on his side of the choir, the _decani_; five on the
opposite, or _cantori_ side. So far as he could see, the boy, Stephen
Bywater, who ought to have taken the anthem, was not in his place.
There appeared to be only four of them; but the senior boy with his
clean, starched surplice, partially hid those below him. Mr. Pye
wondered where his eyes could have been, not to have noticed the boy's
absence when they had all been gathered round the entrance, waiting for
the judges.

Had Mr. Pye's attention not been fully engrossed with his book,