"Mine. They won't care to lay me by my mother, will they?--I mean my own mother. The world might put its inquisitive word in, and say that must be Tom Heriot, the felon. Neither you nor Level would like that, nor old Carlen either." I made no answer, uncertain what to say. "Yet I should like to lie by her," he went on. "There was a large vault made, when she died, to hold the three of us--herself, my father and me. _They_ are in it; I should like to be placed with them." "Time enough to think of that, Tom, when--when--the time comes," I stammered. "The time's not far off now, Charley." "Two nights ago, when I was here, you assured me you were getting better." "Well, I thought I might be; there are such ups and downs in a man's state. He will appear sick unto death to-day, and tomorrow be driving down to a whitebait dinner at Greenwich. I've changed my opinion, Charley; I've had my warning." "Had your warning! What does that mean?" "I should like to see Blanche," he whispered. "Dear little Blanche! How I used to tease her in our young days, and Leah would box my ears for it; and I teased you also, Charley. Could you not bring her here, if Level would let her come?" "Tom, I hardly know. For one thing, she has not heard anything of the past trouble, as you are aware. She thinks you are in India with the regiment, and calls you a very undutiful brother for not writing to her. I suppose it might be managed." "Dear little Blanche!" he repeated. "Yes, I teased her--and loved her all the time. Just one visit, Charley. It will be the last until we meet upon the eternal shores. Try and contrive it." I sat thinking how it might be done--the revelation to Blanche, bringing her to the house, and obtaining the consent of Lord Level; for I should not care to stir in it without his consent. Tom appeared to be thinking also, and a silence ensued. It was he who broke it. "Charles!" "Yes?" "Do you ever recall events that passed in our old life at White Littleham Rectory? do any of them lie in your memory?" "I think all of them lie in it," I answered. "My memory is, you know, a remarkably good one." "Ay," said Tom. And then he paused again. "Do you recollect that especial incident when your father told us of his dream?" he continued presently. "I picture the scene now; it has been present to my mind all day. A frosty winter morning, icicles on the trees and frosty devices on the window-panes. You and I and your father seated round the breakfast-table; Leah pouring out the coffee and cutting bread and butter for us. He appeared to be in deep thought, and when I remarked upon it, and you asked him what he was thinking of, he said his dream. D'you mind it, lad?" "I do. The thing made an impression on me. The scene and what passed at it are as plain to me now as though it had happened yesterday. After saying he was thinking of his dream, he added, in a dubious tone, 'If it _was_ a dream.' Mr. Penthorn came in whilst he was telling it.