The beadle, with much bustle and a liberal use of his staff, scattered and dispersed the mob from the gates, to clear a passage. Two mourning coaches were in waiting. Thomas Godolphin came forth, leaning on his brother's arm, both of them bare-headed still. They entered one; Lord Macdoune stepped into the other. "Thomas!" cried George Godolphin, leaning forward and seizing his brother's hand impulsively, as the mourning-coach paced slowly on: "I should have been here in good time, but for a delay in the train." "How did you hear of it? I did not know where to write to you," was Thomas's reply, spoken calmly. "I heard of it at Broomhead. I went back there, and then I came off at once. Thomas, could they not save her?" A slight negative movement was all Thomas Godolphin's answer. "How did you find your father, George?" "Breaking. Breaking fast. Thomas, all his talk is, that he must come home to die." "To Ashlydyat. I know. How is he to come to it? The Folly is not Ashlydyat. He has desired me to see that he is at Prior's Ash before Christmas, and I shall do so." George looked surprised. "Desired you to see that he is?" "If he is not back speedily, I am to go to Broomhead." "Oh, I see. That your authority, upholding his, may be pitted against my lady's. Take care, Thomas: she may prove stronger than both of you put together." "I think not," replied Thomas quietly; and he placed his elbow on the window frame, and bent his face upon his hand, as if wishing for silence. Meanwhile the Reverend Mr. Hastings had passed through the private gate to his own garden; and half a dozen men were shovelling earth upon the coffin, sending it with a rattle upon the bright plate, which told who was mouldering within: "ETHEL GRAME. Aged twenty years." CHAPTER XV. A MIDNIGHT WALK. Thomas Godolphin sat in his place at the bank, opening the morning letters. It was some little time after the interment of Ethel Grame, and the second week in December was already on the wane. In two days more it was his intention to start for Broomhead: for no tidings arrived of the return of Sir George. The very last of the letters he came upon, was one bearing the Scotch post-mark. A poor little note with a scrawled address: no wonder the sorting-clerk had placed it last of all! It looked singularly obscure, in comparison with those large blue letters and their business hands. Thomas Godolphin knew the writing. It was Margery's. And we may as well read the contents with him, _verbatim_: "MR. THOMAS SIR,