. Here was the place for
communion with him, the spot which had, indeed, been to him none other
than the gate of Heaven.

Yet, will it be believed? Not one look did Honora cast at Humfrey
Charlecote's monument that morning.

With both hands she turned the reluctant bolts of the lock, and pushed
open the nail-studded door. She slowly advanced along the uneven floor
of the aisle, and had just reached the chancel arch, when something
suddenly stirred, making her start violently. It was still, and after a
pause she again advanced, but her heart gave a sudden throb, and a
strange chill of awe rushed over her as she beheld a little white face
over the altar rail, the chin resting on a pair of folded hands, the dark
eyes fixed in a strange, dreamy, spiritual expression of awe.

The shock was but for a moment, the next the blood rallied to her heart,
and she told herself that Humfrey would say, that either the state of her
spirits had produced an illusion, or else that some child had been left
here by accident. She advanced, but as she did so the two hands were
stretched out and locked together as in an agony, and the childish,
feeble voice cried out, 'Oh! if you're an angel, please don't frighten
me; I'll be very good.'

Honora was in a pale, soft, gray dress, that caught the light in a rosy
glow from the east window, and her golden hair was hanging in radiant
masses beneath her straw bonnet, but she could not appreciate the angelic
impression she made on the child, who had been tried so long by such a
captivity. 'My poor child,' she said, 'I am no angel; I am only Miss
Charlecote. I'm afraid you have been shut up here;' and, coming nearer,
she perceived that it was a boy of about seven years old, well dressed,
though his garments were disordered. He stood up as she came near, but
he was trembling all over, and as she drew him into her bosom, and put
her arms round him, she found him quivering with icy cold.

'Poor little fellow,' she said, rocking him, as she sat on the step and
folded her shawl round him, 'have you been here all night? How cold you
are; I must take you home, my dear. What is your name?'

'I'm Robert Mervyn Fulmort,' said the little boy, clinging to her. 'We
came in to see Mr. Charlecote's monument put up, and I suppose they
forgot me. I waked up, and everybody was gone, and the door was locked.
Oh! please,' he gasped, 'take me out. I don't want to cry.'

She thought it best to take him at