The funeral was held in the parish church, and old Parson Trant preached the sermon. With his eyes wet with the flood of sympathy and sorrow, and his voice unsteady and quivering, he delivered to the hushed multitudes an address upon "How are the mighty fallen." He called to their minds the deeds of the squire and his open, frank, generous life in such a tender manner that many of the audience wept in sorrow as acute as his own. There was possibly one of that audience who felt more keenly than others, and he bowed his head down as if ashamed to meet the gaze of the people around him. It was Captain Tom Lanyan. His sorrow was increased with the thought that it was some action of his brother that caused the squire's death. None of the other Lanyans were present. Sir James had to leave to attend to some business in Plymouth, and, informing his lawyer to foreclose the mortgage on the estate and tin mine and secure a tenant for the Manor, he embarked on the first vessel from Falmouth. Mistress Betty was ill of same fancied ailment, and Richard was, no one knew where. After the funeral there was much condolence offered to Mistress Alice Vivian, but no personal help, no one being aware that the Manor and even the home furniture had passed out of the hands of the Vivian family. But Alice knew, and with a sickening sense of loneliness and helplessness she passed out of the gates of the Manor on the evening of the same day of the funeral. She had packed up her little personal belongings and had forwarded them that afternoon to Penzance, where she intended following on the morrow. With a heart full of unuttered grief she wended her way to the old parish church and churchyard to pay a last visit to her father's tomb. The sun had long since disappeared beneath the horizon, and the pale, glimmering moon flooded hill and dale with ghostly, limpid light, whitening the cornices of the old church tower in the distance, deepening the shadows 'neath the trees, and bringing into gleaming prominence the white monuments of the departed. The gates of the cemetery were passed at length, but there was no fear or terror in her heart. Why should she fear? The dead could not hurt her, and it was less lonely here than in the great, empty Manor house. The church door was not locked, and opening it she passed down the long aisle, the tile work underneath echoing hollowly to her faint tread. Near the altar was the tomb of her father. The moonbeams, penetrating the coloured windows, illuminated it with a soft warm radiance, so clear, that the lettering could be easily discerned. She contemplated the inscription with tearful, stony gaze and then read softly to herself: RICHARD VIVIAN, ESQ. Trembath Manor "How are the mighty fallen."