It was a question that the Schoolmaster had looked for at every recent visit that he courted and yet dreaded. It was on a Sunday noon as the congregation left the porch of St. Chad's some lingering by the gateway to exchange neighbourly greeting, others sauntering with an air of unconcern to the door of the Church Inn across the way, whilst yet others still made with leaden foot to a recent grave to pay the tribute of the mourner's tears. Tom had been with other pauper lads in the gallery, a spot of vantage screened from the verger's eye, and where it mattered to nobody what heed you took of the service or sermon so long as you did not make too much noise. He had made haste to get outside the churchyard so that he might not miss his ever gentle friend, the schoolmaster, and now stood by the village stocks outside the graveyard wall and watched the stream of worshippers pass slowly by. Presently his hand was in the schoolmaster's, who turned his face to the road which led past the workhouse boundaries down to his own home at Diggle. "Mr. Black, where is my mother?" The schoolmaster paused, hesitated. They had left the rough and narrow road and crossed a stile into the fields. They were on the higher ground and could plainly see the churchyard. The loiterers had gone their homeward way or drifted into the Inn to seek a solace that is supposed to be appropriate alike in the glad hours of rejoicing and the heavy time of affliction. "Your mother lies yonder," said Mr. Black, solemnly and sadly. "Show me," said the boy, simply. They retraced their steps and sought the ancient burial ground with it's sunken crosses and mouldering mossy stones, and those little mounds without a name that cover the humble dead. In a distant corner Mr. Black stood with uncovered head by a small marble cross and stone slab. sacred to the memory OF A. J. AN UNKNOWN WANDERER WHO DIED IN CHILDBED AT THE HANGING GATE, DIGGLE. JAN. 11TH, 183--. Tom gazed upon the simple monument till he could gaze no more, for blinding, scalding tears welled into his eyes and trickled down his cheeks. "Let us go home," he said, "let me stop with you to-day." In the evening of that peaceful Sunday the school-master told the foundling all he knew: he placed in his hand the precious locket taken from the mother's neck and promised that it should be transferred to Tom's, keeping when he should be old enough to keep it safely. "You will treasure it as the immediate jewel of your soul," he said; "for thereby you may clear your mother's name." Then, falling on his knees he read the evening prayer, and with his blessing dismissed the lad. CHAPTER IV