Meanwhile little Piers, having taken his ticket, waited eagerly for the train. It came up in due course. He took his seat in an empty carriage and soon found himself in the old familiar landmarks. He felt quite happy now and his heart light. It was delightful to be so near home again. When the train drew up at Haversham he got out and walked steadily in the direction of Pelham Towers. On his way he passed a cottage where bread and milk were sold. He went in and proudly paid for his own breakfast. By and by he reached the avenue. He saw the lodge gates, but now as he saw them he began to tremble, for it suddenly occurred to him that after all his secret still belonged to Clara, and that he had faithfully promised her not to reveal it. “I know that short cut just where the gap in the hedge is,” thought the child. “I’ll not go round by the lodge, for some one might see me. I’ll push my way through the gap.” He did so, and the next moment he was running down a side path which led straight to the chapel. The chapel door was open and Piers walked in. It was cold in the chapel, but he was hot with walking. He took off his cap, pushed back his curls, and seated himself in the family pew. He had often sat there with his mother, and he felt quite comfortable and soothed and happy. No one was likely to come to disturb him. He could think what his next step should be—how he could gratify his longing, his passionate longing to see his mother and Barbara, and the old place, and yet keep his secret. Presently he started up, raised his eyes, and confronted the white tablet which recounted his own early death. He read it eagerly. “What does it mean?” he said to himself. “Piers Pelham, aged seven, died. Died! But I have not died. Piers Pelham! There never was any other Piers Pelham, aged seven, but me, and that white stone looks new, and there’s a verse under it. I died last summer—last August. But I didn’t die. I’m here. What does it mean? I don’t like it,” thought little Piers. He heard voices outside: he looked around him. He went down the aisle and entered the churchyard. There was a commotion in the churchyard. A couple of grave-looking professional men were standing together and talking in low tones. One or two other men, also complete strangers to Piers, stood by. Some masons were busy taking away the entrance stone to the old vault. Piers knew that vault. He had often glanced at it with silent dread when he passed on into the church with his mother. Sometimes when he had bad dreams he thought of his ancestors lying in the vault, and he wondered what sort of a place there was inside. As he came now into the sunlight the entrance stone had just been moved away, and he caught a glimpse of the black interior. He did not like it—it made his heart beat painfully. No one was looking at him, however. There was painful work on hand, and the attention of all this queer company was attracted towards it.