ing
only had Tom resolved, and that was, that he couldn't stay in Scotland
any longer: he felt an irresistible longing to get to Rugby, and then
home, and soon broke it to the others, who had too much tact to oppose.

So by daylight the next morning he was marching through Ross-shire,
and in the evening hit the Caledonian Canal, took the next steamer,
and travelled as fast as boat and railway could carry him to the Rugby
station.

As he walked up to the town, he felt shy and afraid of being seen,
and took the back streets--why, he didn't know, but he followed his
instinct. At the School-gates he made a dead pause; there was not a soul
in the quadrangle--all was lonely, and silent, and sad. So with another
effort he strode through the quadrangle, and into the School-house
offices.

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 begin 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 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, b