“‘To be sure,’ he said, ‘now that’s another curious story. These Agers--it’s a very old name in these parts, but I can’t find that they were ever people of quality or big owners--these Agers say, or said, that their branch of the family were the guardians of the last crown. A certain old Nathaniel Ager was the first one I knew--I was born and brought up quite near here--and he, I believe, camped out at the place during the whole of the war of 1870. William, his son, did the same, I know, during the South African War. And young William, _his_ son, who has only died fairly recently, took lodgings at the cottage nearest the spot, and I’ve no doubt hastened his end, for he was a consumptive, by exposure and night watching. And he was the last of that branch. It was a dreadful grief to him to think that he was the last, but he could do nothing, the only relations at all near to him were in the colonies. I wrote letters for him to them imploring them to come over on business very important to the family, but there has been no answer. So the last of the holy crowns, if it’s there, has no guardian now.’ “That was what the rector told me, and you can fancy how interesting I found it. The only thing I could think of when I left him was how to hit upon the spot where the crown was supposed to be. I wish I’d left it alone. “But there was a sort of fate in it, for as I bicycled back past the churchyard wall my eye caught a fairly new gravestone, and on it was the name of William Ager. Of course I got off and read it. It said ‘of this parish, died at Seaburgh, 19--, aged 28.’ There it was, you see. A little judicious questioning in the right place, and I should at least find the cottage nearest the spot. Only I didn’t quite know what was the right spot to begin my questioning at. Again there was fate: it took me to the curiosity-shop down that way--you know--and I turned over some old books, and, if you please, one was a prayer-book of 1740 odd, in a rather handsome binding--I’ll just go and get it, it’s in my room.” He left us in a state of some surprise, but we had hardly time to exchange any remarks when he was back, panting, and handed us the book opened at the fly-leaf, on which was, in a straggly hand: “Nathaniel Ager is my name and England is my nation, Seaburgh is my dwelling-place and Christ is my Salvation, When I am dead and in my Grave, and all my bones are rotton, I hope the Lord will think on me when I am quite forgotton.” This poem was dated 1754, and there were many more entries of Agers, Nathaniel, Frederick, William, and so on, ending with William, 19--.