"That is true; but there are certain things yet to be arranged concerning those who stay behind. I must see our friends at Avranches, and leave with them some means of raising funds to help themselves withal. To-morrow I shall go thither, and the day after I hope to go—but why should I say hope?" he murmured, in the sad voice I knew so well. "Weep not for the dead, neither bemoan him, but weep, son, for him that goeth away, for he shall return no more, nor see his native country." "If my native country was such a step-dame as this, I don't think I should bemoan it very much," muttered Andrew between his teeth. "Don't the people who have gone away and settled in America long to see England again?" I asked. "No, I don't believe they do," he said. "They are as self-satisfied as any people I ever saw. And yet I don't know," he added. "The names they give their children are very touching, especially those on the stones in their burying-ground." "What names?" I asked. "Such names as 'Hopestill,' 'Waitstill,' 'Submit,' 'Resignation,' and the like. I read one epitaph over a little baby girl which runs thus: "'Submit submitted to her Heavenly King, Being a flower of that Eternal Spring! Near three years old, she died, in Heaven to wait; The year was sixteen hundred forty-eight.' "Not the best of poetry, you will say, but very affecting to my mind." "Come, come, son," said my father; "we did not come into this mouldy old hole to repeat verses. Let us set to work." Andrew blushed again, and at once bent himself to the task of removing the heavy stones. This was hard work, especially as it was necessary to make as little noise about it as possible. But it was accomplished at last, and the arched entrance of the passage made practicable. More my father did not care to do. "Now for the other end," said my father. "Vevette, are you afraid?" "No indeed!" said I indignantly. "Vevette is a real Corbet woman!" said Andrew. "She is afraid of nothing." "Except of being laughed at," returned my father. "Come, then, give me the light. I will go first, and do you young ones follow, carefully, and looking to your steps." I was about to speak, but my father put his finger upon his lip. "We will not talk," whispered he; "we are now outside the bounds of the vault, and may be overheard." Accordingly we proceeded in silence for some hundred yards, sometimes able to walk upright, sometimes bending almost double, as the walls and roof contracted, till our further passage was barred by a heap of large stones. These, however, being loosely piled, were easily removed, and we found ourselves in a cellar-like vault, in which were piled up old cider-casks. (All such places in that part of Normandy always are full of useless old casks, though what they are kept for I cannot say.)