But won't you take anything?" said
the matron, looking rather disappointed.
"No, thank you," said he, and strode off 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 in the Greek legends, giving him no rest in mind or body, seemed
all of a sudden not to be satisfied, but to shrivel up and pall.
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