“The same. He come that night all alone, and he were in a terrible state. He went right into the vault. He had a lantern with him, and down he went, yes down the steps and into the vault. I stood near in the dark trembling mighty, just ahint that yew tree, but he didn’t notice me. He went into the vault, and I saw the lantern lighting up the gloom. I heard him groaning to himself. He was in mortal trouble if ever young man were.” “It’s a strange tale,” said Mrs. Ives, “and afflictin’. He must ha’ been a tender-hearted young man. I’ll wish you a good a’ternoon.” She left the little churchyard and was soon on the high road. She reached Haversham station in time to catch her train, and very late the same night found herself home once more in her little cottage in Cornwall. Piers was asleep. As he lay on his small bed, with one arm flung above his clustering mass of black curls, Mrs. Ives shading a candle, bent carefully over him. “The same,” she muttered. “The same shape of face, the true oval, most aristocratic, the mouth with its dimples and its curves—aye, it takes quality to make a mouth like that. The brows—I could be romantic over the brows, they look as if they was Cupid’s bows. I ha’ heard the expression, it’s poetry and it’s beautiful. The ’air dark and curly and as soft as silk. Oh, he’s the very same. Clary, what do it mean? what do it mean?” The little woman left the boy and went back to her kitchen. There she sat with her hands folded on her lap and a look of consternation, even terror, on her small crabbed face. “What do it mean?” she repeated. “There’s no doubt they ha’ put a coffin in the vault, but there ain’t no little Sir Piers in it.” Mrs. Ives’ thoughts were so disturbing that, weary as she was, she did not care to go to bed. She drew a glass of beer from a barrel in the corner, drank it off, and after a very long time lay down without troubling to undress in the room where the boy slept. Early in the morning he awoke fresh and bright. He scrambled out of bed and went to the old woman’s side. He then sat on the bottom of the bed and faced her. “You’ve come back,” he said. “I’m so glad.” “I have come back, Piers,” she answered. “Where were you yesterday, grannie?” “I went on a long journey into Devonshire.” “Oh,” said Piers very solemnly, “I wish you wouldn’t.” “Why so, love? Do you object to me going into the next county?” “I do,” replied Piers, “because——” “Yes, dear.” “Oh, I can’t tell you. She’ll be angry.” “Who, dear?” “She.” “Do you mean my darter—Mrs. Tarbot?” “I do, grannie.” “Well, whether she’s angry or whether she’s not,” said Mrs. Ives, “I went sure enough. You sit there on the bed and I’ll tell you a bit of a story. I went to a beautiful place.” “Did you?” said the boy. He was trembling and the color was coming and going in his face. One moment his cheeks were brilliantly red, the next white. His little hands shook, he locked one inside the other to keep them still.