The grey coolness of the little Norman church was restful. The vicar sighed and closed his eyes—those full blue eyes that had once been bold and winsome, that were still keen. The old live mostly in the past, they are not often dull or lonely. At will they can summon a whole pageantry of love, and friendship, and eager strife. The vicar of Redmarley was much given to warming his hands at the fires of recollection. His memory was excellent, and he had much to remember, for he had lived strenuously. Age had not dimmed his faculties, his hearing being particularly acute. Presently his good dream was disturbed, and he began to be annoyed by a strange little scraping noise for which he could not account. It was almost continuous. He leant forward and listened, frowned, then looked interested, and finally rose from his seat. The noise ceased. He sat down again and waited. Sure enough the sound began, again, and it was for all the world like the scratch of a quill pen in the hand of a rapid writer. He decided that it came from a chapel on the right side of the altar—the chapel in which his wife was buried. A square sarcophagus stood in the centre, but there were no seats, as the chapel was quite small. Hobbling up the three steps that led to it from the body of the church, the vicar looked about him but could see nothing, and the silence was unbroken. Suddenly it occurred to him to look over the tomb which filled the centre vacant space. What he discovered caused him to exclaim, more surprisedly than piously: "God bless my soul!" Seated on the floor, in the narrow space which separated the side of the tomb from the church wall, was a young man. A card blotting-book lay on his knees, a leather ink-bottle was stuck into the tracery of the tomb, and scattered round him were closely written sheets of manuscript. He looked up at the vicar’s exclamation, but made no attempt to rise. "Sir! What are you doing here?" The vicar’s voice was low, but in the "Sir!" there was infinite rebuke. The intruder lifted his gaunt face the better to observe his questioner. Then he pointed to the scattered papers, saying: "It is not difficult to see." "But why do you write in my church?" persisted the vicar, peering over the side of the tomb at this strange sacrilegious person, with a curiosity that almost mastered his annoyance. "Because there was nowhere else. I have done no harm to your church—besides, how is it more your church than mine?" "Do you think you could come and converse with me in the porch upon this subject? I am old-fashioned, and your action strikes me as incongruous. Moreover, it tires me to stand." The young man scrambled to his feet. Laying his hands upon the tomb’s flat top he vaulted lightly over, and stood beside the vicar on the wider side of the tiny chapel. The vicar frowned, demanding: "Would you like me to jump over your wife’s grave?"