Into the cloud of London at nine; out at ten, and flying through Essex cornfields and Cambridgeshire fens. There had been heavy rains the night before, and the country was soggy and saturated, with white gleams of water over the land. The hay was swashing in the fields like seaweed. Then the great church of Ely broke the horizon, and he changed the train, finding an hour to wait. The little town was deserted; the great towers seemed to weigh it down, to compel a solemn stillness. He passed his time in the cathedral. At the end of the nave, just in front of the eastern windows, is a beautiful reredos, a marvellous assemblage of angels, saints and pinnacles. There is a central figure of Christ among the apostles which had a strange attraction for him. He must have been quite rapt in this; for the din of the noon-day bells reminded him that his train left at twelve-fourteen. At Rushey Station the carriage met him from the Eyotts, with Sir Henry's footmen in mourning. The Greshams were all very fond of Mary. He saw his mother as soon as he got to the house; but nothing was said between them for a long time. "Mary is to be buried here," she began, finally. "I think it better; better than any place out of America." Then, after a pause: "I have not dared to telegraph your father. I could not bear to have him know, all alone. He has not been well lately, I know; and is anxious about his business. I wrote him that Mary was ill, and begged him to come to France." The Greshams were very kind, and all was done that could be done. Clara Gresham seemed overcome with grief; she had loved Mary so dearly, and her visit was to have been such a happy one. She was a quiet, rather plain girl, but Vane found he could talk more easily with her than with any one else. His mother and he said very little when they were together. One morning, at the breakfast table, Vane got a letter from America. Some presentiment made him conceal it from his mother, and not open it until he was alone. It was written in a tremulous hand, unlike his father's, and told him they had lost everything. His father's property, though large, was all involved in railways; and some panic had intervened at a critical moment and all had been swept away. "My poor boy," the letter went on, "even your own little fortune is gone. Will you forgive me? You can bear it, I know, for you are young, and can make your own way; and your mother has loved me long enough to live with me these few last years in poverty; but when I think of Mary's future, so different from what I had hoped, it breaks my heart. You must give up the lease of Monrepos and come to America directly."