He found the little matron in her room in deep mourning; shook her hand, tried to talk, and moved nervously about: she was evidently thinking of the same subject as he, but he couldn't beg-in talking.
"Where shall I find Thomas?" said he at last, getting desperate.
"In the servants' hall, I think, sir. But won't you take anything?" said the matron, looking rather disappointed.
"No, thank you," said he, and strode of again to find the old Verger, who was sitting in his little den as of old, puzzling over hieroglyphics.
He looked up through his spectacles, as Tom seized his hand and wrung it.
"Ah! you've heard all about it, sir, I see," said he. Tom nodded, and then sat down on the shoe-board, while the old man told his tale, and wiped his spectacles, and fairly flowed over with quaint, homely, honest sorrow.
By the time he had done, Tom felt much better.
"Where is he buried, Thomas?" said he at last.
"Under the altar in the chapel, sir," answered Thomas. "You'd like to have the key, I dare say."
"Thank you, Thomas—Yes, I should very much."
And the old man fumbled among his bunch, and then got up, as though he would go with him; but after a few steps stopped short, and said, "Perhaps you'd like to go by yourself, sir?"
Tom nodded, and the bunch of keys were handed to him, with an injunction to be sure and lock the door after him, and bring them back before eight o'clock.
He walked quickly through the quadrangle and out into the close. The longing which had been upon him and driven him thus far, like the gad-fly
