“I don’t want to hear no more,” said Mrs. Ives. “I am curious by natur’, but I has no taste for the horrors. I’ll be wishing you a good a’ternoon.” She dropped another curtsey, and the man touched his hat and went on with his work. Mrs. Ives took the next turning to her left. She went down a narrow path, and presently saw where the old chapel, partly in ruins and partly well preserved, came into view. In the east portion of the chapel services could be held, and were held on certain occasions. The old lych gate was in front of her. She opened it and went through, and then walked up the path which led to the chapel. The chapel itself was open and she entered. The walls of that part which were still in preservation were covered with brasses and monuments, some very old fashioned, some more modern, but all erected to the praise and glory of the dead and gone Pelhams. In every direction there were monuments, and as she was looking some workmen were busy. They saw her and made way for her to pass. A lovely tablet of the purest white marble was being put up to the memory of little Piers. Mrs. Ives began to speak to the men, but they were strangers and did not know anything about the child. “It seems mortal sad for the young to pass away in their first blush,” said Mrs. Ives, turning to the head workman. “It is that, ma’am,” he answered. “And where is this beautiful monument to be placed, if I may venture to ask?” “On this wall, in front of the family pew, just there,” said the man. “It’s young Lady Pelham has ordered it to be done. She comes to see how we are getting on every day.” “Well, it’s a pretty simple design, and no doubt worthy of the lamb called so early to his rest,” said Mrs. Ives. She dropped another curtsey, not to the man but to the tablet, and went into the churchyard. There she found the family vault and stood by it for a time. An old man who was passing through the graveyard came up to her. “Now I wonder was you present at the funeral of Sir Piers Pelham?” asked Mrs. Ives, dropping two curtseys. “Yes, that I were,” he replied, “and it was the finest funeral we’ve had for many a day. All the county come, and there was a lot of crying and sobbing, but it was nothing to what took place that same night.” “What were that?” she asked. “I like a good story,” she continued. She slipped her hand into her pocket, produced a shilling, and pressed it into the man’s palm. He pocketed it with a quick motion and turned and faced her. “I don’t mind telling what I know,” he said. “The awful time was when the heir himself, the new baronet, come back.” “Sir Richard, you mean?”