Suddenly he stopped and looked at a buttress that jutted out from the church and for the existence of which there seemed to be no ostensible reason. He examined it and found that it was not a buttress but apparently a half ruined chamber, which at some former period had been built upon the side of the abbey. Low down by the ground there was a hole, where a few stones seemed to have been removed and not replaced. Goddard knelt down in the long wet grass and put in his head; then he crept in on his hands and knees and presently disappeared. He found himself in a room about ten feet square, dimly lighted by a small window at the top, and surrounded by long horizontal niches. The floor, which was badly broken in some places, was of stone. Goddard examined the place carefully. It was evidently an old vault of the kind formerly built above ground for the lords of the manor; but the coffins, if there had ever been any, had been removed elsewhere. Goddard laughed to himself. "I might stay here for a year, if I could get anything to eat," he said to himself. CHAPTER XIV. The squire had grown used to the position in which he found himself after Mary Goddard had told him her story. He continued his visits as formerly, and it could hardly be said that there was any change in his manner towards her; there was no need of any change, for even at the time when he contemplated making her his wife there had been nothing lover-like in his behaviour. He had been a friend and had treated her with all the respect due to a lonely lady who was his tenant, and even with a certain formality which had sometimes seemed unnecessary. But though there was no apparent alteration in his mode of talking, in his habit of bringing her flowers and books and of looking after the condition of the cottage, both she and he were perfectly conscious of the fact that they understood each other much better than before. They were united by the common bond of a common secret which very closely concerned one of them. Things were not as they had formerly been. Mrs. Goddard no longer felt that she had anything to hide; the squire knew that he no longer had anything to hope. If he had been a selfish man, if she had been a less sensible woman, their friendship might have ended then and there. But Mr. Juxon was not selfish, and Mary Goddard did not lack good sense. Having ascertained that in the ordinary course of events there was no possibility of ever marrying her, the squire did not at once give her over and go elsewhere; on the contrary he showed himself more desirous than ever of assisting her and amusing her. He was a patient man; his day might come yet, if Goddard died. It did not follow that if he could not marry Mrs. Goddard he must needs marry some one else; for it was not a wife that he sought, but the companionship of this particular woman as his wife. If he could not marry he could still enjoy at least a portion of that companionship,