To reach the parsonage, he had to pass his mother's grave, and as he approached the well-known spot, with his head uncovered, he experienced somewhat of a shock, it seemed so neglected and forgotten; when under the Southern Cross, and far beyond the equator, how often had his prayerful thoughts come here, and how did he find it now? The tiny, but pretty monumental cross, erected by his father in the days of their limited means--then almost penury--had fallen down, and the little patch of grass under which she lay was choked with weeds! Even Mr. Asperges Laud had failed in the work of clearing and weeding it again and again--often with his own hands. But Derval resolved that not another day should pass, ere this desecration should end. The kind old curate received him warmly and affectionately, as if he had been his own father, and with tears in his eyes, held up his hand to bless him. Incidentally, he told him of the growing wealth of Finglecombe, and of the great fortune his father was amassing. Derval, who had naturally inferred that such was the case, now heard it distinctly for the first time, though he had been kept in ignorance of it; and, as naturally, he again asked of himself, why was this the case? He strove to crush down the unpleasant suspicions of--he knew not what--that would occur to him again and again, and sought to enjoy to the full the brief term of his leave of absence. He sought all his old haunts, but only to find changes; the shingly shore, which he had been wont to seek for hours, and whence he saw the old weedy hull floating silently in the bay, was now giving place to a sea-wall and marine parade; the Druidical stones that formed the Pixies Parlour had become road metal, and the new hotel occupied its site; the haunted mill with its moss-grown wheel had given place to a new villa of astounding design; and he found nothing unchanged but the Tiws-stone, or rock, named after the Saxon god (of the third day of the week), on the summit of a hill, where in the deep snows of winter, it is said, that on certain nights are traced the marks of a naked human foot, and of a cloven hoof, while the shrieks of the "whist hounds" are heard with the winding of unearthly horns, in the hollow below the hill. So for a time, a very little time, he gave himself up to the full enjoyment of the sleepy country life, which was so unlike what he had been leading for fully four years past. Yet in his father's house he felt singularly homeless; by the side of him whose blood he inherited and of the brother whose blood he partly shared, he felt as one without kindred, and ever and anon the thought occurred to him, "What brought me here? I had no pressing invitation certainly; let me get back to the _Amethyst_ again!" Still stronger grew this desire, when one day he overheard his step-mother say: